A Running Tide

by Ann Swinfen

  It was past midday by the time they had filled their baskets and Simon said he had to get back to the farm. He pulled a piece of string out of his pocket and tied the two rakes together by their handles for easier carrying.

  ‘See you tomorrow on the bus to Portland,’ he said as he started home along the beach.

  ‘Ayuh,’ Tirza said. She felt a sudden sinking in her stomach. The thought of going to high school was not pleasant. New school, new teachers, new classmates. And the long journey by bus twice a day instead of the short walk along the seafront. It was going to change her life considerably.

  She walked over to where Stormy Petrel’s anchor rope stretched out from the ledges over the water. The tide had risen now and she was afloat in three or four feet of water. Tirza began to pull on the rope to bring her in to shore. As she did so, she saw a figure approaching along the beach from the direction of Libby’s Farm. At first she thought it was Simon coming back again, then she realised that it was Sandy.

  ‘Hello,’ he called, waving. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Tirza stood with her feet in the water, steadying Stormy Petrel with one hand.

  ‘Looking for me where?’

  ‘I thought you might be at your uncle’s farm. Then I met Simon and he said you had been picking cranberries along here.’ He peered into the basket of berries balanced on a flat rock.

  ‘Amazing. I do believe you would know how to live off the land if you had to, Tirza.’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said, but she was pleased.

  ‘I have something for you. Got it in Portland yesterday. Do you have time to come up to the hotel?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  She lifted the basket of berries into the boat and settled it firmly on the bottom boards. Then she played out the anchor rope again so that Stormy Petrel rode offshore. They walked together to the path over the rocks on Todd’s Neck. Sandy was using only one stick now, and Tirza noticed that he no longer seemed to be limping.

  When they reached the hotel, Sandy collected his key from the desk.

  ‘It’s upstairs in my room,’ he said, leading the way to the wide curved staircase, whose carpet was so thick that walking was like wading through wet sand. The staircase had fantastically ornamented spindles and balustrades, and in alcoves along the wall stood blue-and-white Chinese jars four feet tall. Tirza had never been in this part of the hotel before, and she stared about her with interest, but she was conscious that the severe-looking woman behind the desk had turned her mouth down in disapproval when she saw Tirza’s bare, sand-encrusted feet and the tufts from the marsh grasses clinging to her clothes.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Sandy, throwing open a heavy mahogany door and leading the way into the room. Tirza gaped. It reminded her of the bedrooms in the Tremayne house, except that here everything was fresh and clean. The bed was a huge four-poster – you needed a step to climb up into it. It was covered by a hand-made patchwork quilt, so fine she wondered whether it might be one of Miss Molly’s. There were festoons of wispy drapes caught back with cords round each of the posts, and a carved oak coffer at the foot of the bed. Two armchairs worked in needlepoint stood either side of the big window. In the corner was an old-fashioned roll-top desk, polished till it glowed, and on each side of the bed a night stand piled high with books. A big wardrobe of the kind Miss Catherine called an ‘armoire’ completed the furnishings, but there was also a door, half ajar.

  ‘What’s through there?’ she asked.

  ‘My bathroom.’

  ‘Your own bathroom? Just for you? Can I look?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Unlike the bedroom, the bathroom was furnished in the most modern style, like a Hollywood movie, with everything in marble. The huge mirrors on the wall showed a skinny girl with unkempt hair, tattered clothes, and a large scab on one knee. Tirza backed away hastily and went to look out of the bedroom window. The view was not very different from the view out of her own room, without the wharf down below. Mustinegus, however, looked a different shape seen from this angle.

  ‘Now,’ said Sandy. ‘I know you’re starting high school tomorrow, so to celebrate the occasion I’ve got you a present. Shut your eyes and hold out your hands.’

  Feeling foolish, Tirza did so. She felt him put a hard, heavy object in her hands.

  ‘Can I look now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was a camera. The twin of Sandy’s own, it seemed. She was astonished.

  ‘Oh, Sandy.’ She lifted it lovingly out of its case, where she could see three or four boxes of film. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful! But it isn’t my birthday or anything. I don’t know what my dad will say.’

  He might say she couldn’t accept it.

  ‘You must just tell him it’s my way of saying thank you for all the times you helped me when I was ill.’

  She laid it carefully down on the bed and flung her arms around him.

  ‘It’s the most marvellous present I’ve ever had. I’ll never forget you, Sandy.’

  He put his arms around her and pressed her close to him. She could smell the clean, male scent of him, and the spice of his aftershave, and the blood rushed roaring into her ears.

  17

  Maine: Fall 1942

  Leaving Flamboro, starting high school, felt strange the next day. It was one of those warm fall days that seem like summer, so Tirza was hot and constrained in her school clothes, a pleated plaid skirt, scratchy with newness, a white blouse and a high-necked navy sweater that had once been Martha’s. Although the sweater was clean and aired, it carried with it a lingering shadow of Martha’s musky perfume which made it seem foreign to Tirza. It stood separate from her like the shell of a dead snail in which a hermit crab has taken up residence, unlike her own worn and faded summer clothes which lay softly against her skin like another layer of herself. Her feet were now encased in knee-high white socks and heavy regulation black and white saddle-Oxfords. After months of barefoot freedom, her toes were agonisingly cramped, and she was conscious of the bulk of the shoes with every step. It felt as though she had to swing each leg like a fisherman swinging a weighted lead line.

  The previous evening, Nathan had presented her with a new leather bag for her books.

  ‘Thought this might be useful,’ he said gruffly.

  The leather glowed where he had secretly buffed and polished it. Tirza, knowing just how many lobsters it must have cost and remembering the terrible day of the fog, blinked back tears and hugged him. She clutched it now on her knees. There was little inside it: a pencil case, ruler and geometry instruments. Her lunch, wrapped in waxed paper and packed in a tin box. The school would provide stationery and books. Despite her reluctance, part of her was curious about the books.

  She found a seat near the back of the bus to Portland. No one came to sit beside her. Simon was up front with two other boys, three of them crowded together on a seat intended for two and kidding around in that silly way boys have when they are showing off because they are nervous. The older high school students scrambled aboard the bus at the last minute with studied nonchalance.

  Miss Bennett arrived to wish them luck. Of course, she was really Mrs Pete Flett now, but to her former pupils she was still Miss Bennett. She climbed up the steep steps into the bus with some difficulty, because she was already dressed for her own first day of school in a smart new suit with a big jacket and a pencil-slim skirt. Her skirt climbed above her knees as she came up the steps and one of the boys gave a wolf whistle. She blushed slightly and tugged her skirt down, but she did not scold as she would have done just a few months ago. It was this, more than anything else, that made Tirza realise she really was starting a new school.

  ‘I wanted to wish you all the best of luck,’ said Miss Bennett. ‘And to tell you that I’ll be thinking of you this morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Bennett,’ they chorused.

  ‘And make sure you are a credit to Flamboro School.’


  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And come and tell me all about it when you get back this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She climbed down and the bus driver started the engine. It was an ancient bus which rattled violently when the engine was running. The body panels seemed to be banging against the chassis so hard they would fall off. Miss Bennett gave them a final wave and the bus swung left up Schoolhouse Lane towards the Portland road.

  It was a confusing day. Tirza spent most of it in a panic that she would lose her way in the big building with its network of corridors and surging crowds of older students. It was hard to go from being in the senior class of their small village school to being the youngest person in the entire high school. She had grown some during the summer, but she was conscious all day of looking like a grade school child who had wandered into this collection of adults by mistake. She saw very little of Simon. Where they had optional subjects, he had chosen sciences, Tirza had chosen Spanish, French and history. Even with the compulsory classes, like English, she found that she had been placed in a higher academic section than he had. The only class they had in common was civics, where the students seemed to be allocated alphabetically.

  It was confusing, too, the way they had to keep packing up their books and papers and moving on to a different teacher, instead of settling into one room for the day. When it was time to board the afternoon bus back to Flamboro, Tirza was exhausted. She caught sight of herself in the plate-glass window of a store next to the bus stop. Her hair was a mess, her blouse was hanging out between her sweater and her skirt, and her face looked pasty white with two dark-ringed eyes peering out of it. She knew she could not really be that white, not with her summer tan, but the image startled her nevertheless. The boys arrived in a rush at the same time as the bus, and pushed in front of Tirza to get on first. This time she sat closer to them, just two seats behind. She did not want to look as though she was hanging around them, but it seemed more reassuring, somehow, to hear their familiar voices. The bus wandered around the dusty back roads in a long zigzag route back to Flamboro, and Tirza spent the time looking through her new books. She ran a caressing hand over their sleek cloth covers, and sniffed the slippery paper which smelled of ink and newness. She had never possessed so many unknown books at once before. The Spanish book had a long introduction which she began to read, all about the history of Spain and the Conquistadors invading Central and South America, and the differences between the Spanish spoken in Spain and Spanish spoken on this side of the Atlantic. Tirza became absorbed in it and read all the way home. It occurred to her as she climbed down the steps that she could probably do a lot of her homework on the bus, to give herself more free time in the evenings.

  She had no chance to try out her new camera until the weekend. There had been quite a debate about it at home, while Tirza held her breath, waiting to find out whether she would be allowed to keep it. In the end, however, Nathan had overruled Abigail’s stern objections, yielding to the silent, pleading looks Tirza was giving him. The camera fitted inside one pocket of its carrying case, and there was another one for spare films and other items. Sandy had packed in four films, a small book on photography and copies of the photographs she had taken with his camera.

  She studied these critically. They weren’t too bad. She had moved the camera on one of them, and a couple were out of focus, but mostly she had managed to capture what she thought she had seen in the viewfinder. The picture of Sandy in Stormy Petrel and the one showing the heap of lobster pots were pretty good. On Friday evening she read the photography book in bed until she fell asleep over it. To be honest, it made everything sound more complicated than it had when she was taking pictures with Sandy.

  All Saturday, except when she was wanted for her chores, she spent hunting round Flamboro for likely subjects to photograph. She was parsimonious with her film, though, after pricing those for sale in Flett’s Stores. And she would need to save up money for getting the films developed. That would have to be done in Portland. It would be difficult, because there was only just time to get from the bus to school in the morning and from school to the bus at night. At lunchtime they were supposed to stay on the school premises, except for the Seniors. Maybe she could make friends with one of the girls who lived in Portland, and persuade her to take the films to be developed.

  In the afternoon she took the camera to show Christina.

  ‘That’s a very fine gift,’ she said. ‘If you have the eye for it, the camera can be used as skilfully as a painter uses a brush. What can you see to photograph here?’

  They were sitting outside Christina’s cabin near the well. She was shucking corn and paused with the cob cradled between her hands in the lap of her apron.

  ‘Well.’ Tirza considered. ‘There are some clumps of flowers at the foot of that maple. And I could photograph your cabin. And I’d like to take one of you like that, with the corn.’

  Christina laughed.

  ‘All right.’

  Unlike Abigail, she did not insist on going inside to change her dress and tidy her hair.

  ‘Now, what else?’ she said, when Tirza had finished.

  ‘The woods, maybe. Only that’s difficult, because you can’t really show the whole woods. Unless you sailed out to sea and photographed them from there. Then they’d probably look too small and far away. I don’t know how you could do it. Same as the ocean. How can you photograph that? See, this one I tried to take on Sandy’s camera – it just looks like nothing, a sort of grey plate. That bump there is Mustinegus, but you can’t get any idea of the sizes or the distance.’

  Christina studied the photograph.

  ‘I suppose it is a little like drawing and painting. We used to be told to look not just at the objects we were trying to draw, but at the spaces between them.’

  She stood up, brushing the corn silk off her skirt and putting the cob down on her stool.

  ‘Now, look at the ocean between this group of trees below us. The maple is quite close, so the leaves would come out large on your photograph. Behind are those two spruces and the clumps of balsam firs, and right at the edge of the cliff there’s that hickory, further away still. I think they would give you the depth you need, so your picture has some distance in it. And if you concentrate on the spaces between the trees – the shapes of those spaces – they’re filled up with the ocean.’

  ‘I see,’ Tirza said, looking into the viewfinder. ‘The pieces of ocean make a pattern between the trees, and the trees frame the ocean.’ She clicked the shutter. ‘I wonder how it will turn out.’

  ‘You must show me when you have it developed. I’ve never owned a camera, but I’m sure a lot of the principles of art must apply to photography.’

  Tirza thought about that when she was trying to read the photography book in bed again that night. It explained focal length in boring detail, but Tirza thought that her grandmother’s ideas made much more sense. If you could think of a photograph as a painting, with depth, and light and shade, and balance, then it ought to work out right.

  On Sunday, after church and dinner, she slipped out again with her camera. There had been only the three of them for lunch today, so the washing up did not take long, and she was out of the house by two o’clock. She decided to walk along the coast path and take some pictures of the Tremayne house and the foxes’ den (the foxes too, if she was lucky), then see if there was anything of interest along Libby’s Beach.

  At the Tremayne place she climbed over the stone wall and walked across the neglected garden till she was close enough to fill the viewfinder with the house. She understood by now that if she had taken her photograph from the edge of the garden the house would look like a small box on the horizon. Back in the gully, near the den, she crouched behind the bushes for half an hour until she was rewarded by one of the growing fox cubs coming out to sun himself. At the click of the camera he turned and stared intently in her direction and she quickly took another picture before he retreated
into the hole.

  Feeling pleased with herself, she wandered along the beach, but it was difficult to see what she could photograph here. The tide was halfway in, there were no fishing boats out because it was Sunday, and no one else was on the beach this late in the year. Then she remembered a spur of rock, the Spouter, which jutted out from the path leading up to the Mansion House from this side of Todd’s Neck. It was near to the old Libby property, where Harriet had sometimes taken them for picnics when they were small, and she had been fascinated by the way the breakers shot vertically into the air through cracks in the Spouter, with a great spume of foam. She put the camera back into its case, which she wore round her neck, and began to scramble up the rocks.

  The path to the hotel followed the cliff edge here for a short way, then veered across the headland and went south while a narrow, little-used side path led to the Libby summer cottage. As Tirza turned on to this – nothing more than a pale strip in the tough sea-grasses along the top of the cliff – she remembered that it was just below here that Wayne’s body had been found washed inshore. She looked down over the edge at the sharp spikes of rock. Due to some effect of geology, the ledges of granite, which lay nearly horizontal along most of the coast, had been twisted here so that they pointed upwards, making the rocks and reefs around Todd’s Neck particularly dangerous. The thought of Wayne gave Tirza a sudden cold chill. She had not thought about him for weeks. His face, pale and waxy, but still sprinkled with fox-coloured freckles, seemed to swim up towards her through the mottled water.

  Soberly, she went on till she reached the highest point, where the ground jutted out to form the Spouter. It was here that the water was catapulted upwards, if the tide was right. Even before she reached the spot, she knew that today conditions were perfect because she could hear the crash, followed by a strange rushing sound, which died away in the pattering of the high-thrown spray falling down on to the rocks and trees. The only problem was to find a place where she could take her photograph without soaking her camera in spray. At last she found a spot upwind of the waterspout and partly sheltered by the spreading branches of a silver birch. Then she set herself to count the time between spouts, so she could click the shutter at just the right moment.