“I was merely protecting my property,” I protested. “Mars looks like he could take that screen out in a single bound.”
We both took a few sips of wine. I could tell that she was growing a little edgy—but was she eager to get back to her cottage or reluctant to leave? She wandered over to my desk, her hands lightly touching my chair.
I stood up and offered to help her open up the cottage.
“Are you sure?” She flashed me a grateful smile. “I hope you don’t think I’m rude. I’d like to stay and chat, but I’m anxious to get organized. I feel bad imposing on you like this.”
I walked over to my desk and carefully picked up Marged Brice’s diaries. I felt her eyes following me as I locked them in a drawer.
“I’m not keeping you from something, am I?”
I assured her that it would keep until tomorrow.
“Those looked like very old books,” she said as we walked down the steps.
I nodded and then smiled—remembering how she’d always wanted to know what Doug and I were up to. He’d teased her mercilessly about it.
“Do you mind me asking what they are?” She paused at the bottom step.
“They’re diaries.” I kept my expression noncommittal. “They belong to a woman who claims to be one hundred and thirty-four years old, and she’s asked me to read them.”
Clare looked at me closely, then she slowly grinned, her eyes sparkling. “I’m not quite as gullible as I used to be, Professor Hellyer. At least that’s one thing that’s changed.”
Five
“I’m sorry, it’s all I have. I’ve still got to get groceries: thank goodness Mum made me a care package! I dearly hope it’s not a false rumor that you like this.”
Clare was taking one of her mother’s chicken potpies out of the oven.
“Did she make it for me?” I was surprised.
“Well, yes,” Clare said slowly. “I mean, Mum said if you were up, I was to give it to you. You do like it, don’t you?”
I said I was a very willing recipient of anything Donna might cook up.
“Besides, it’s the least I can do,” Clare continued briskly. “You spent all day helping me. I wouldn’t have running water if it weren’t for you. Dad and Douglas always dealt with that pump. I should have paid more attention.”
I took the plates from her while she fetched two glasses. “Let’s eat out on the deck,” she suggested. “It’s such a glorious evening.”
Clare barely touched her food, but watched me swallow several mouthfuls. “So you weren’t pulling my leg yesterday,” she began, “when you said Miss Brice is one hundred and thirty-four years old.”
“She claims she’s one hundred and thirty-four,” I corrected. “But she’s probably in her nineties.”
“Why would she lie?” Clare looked at me doubtfully. “I thought women always fibbed the other way around—about being younger than they really are.”
“I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. It’s probably someone else’s birth certificate.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s extremely unlikely anyone could live that long.”
“Is there a maximum age that we can live to, then?”
I explained that our genes tended to give up on us after we reached eighty, largely because we were pretty much irrelevant to survival of the species by that point. Then I told her the oldest person on record was a French woman who’d lived to be 122 years old.
“One hundred and twenty-two!”
I smiled at her puzzled expression. She had placed her elbows on the table and was resting her chin in her hands as she looked out across the Bay. “Do you think there’s a secret to longevity?” she asked. “Maybe it’s your diet—or stress levels, or something like that.”
“The best advice for longevity I ever heard was from Li Ching-Yuen.”
“Who?”
“He was a Chinese herbalist. Rumor has it that he was born in 1736, but others placed his birth at 1677. He died in 1933, so he was either one hundred and ninety-seven or two hundred and fifty-six years old.”
“You’re joking!”
I shook my head. “No. Of course his age was never verified.”
“Did he ever share his secret formula for longevity? No doubt it involved ginseng.”
“No ginseng, but Li Ching said that a person must do three things.” I waited for a few seconds, swallowing a mouthful of pie.
“Well?”
I cleared my throat and assumed a solemn expression. “He said we should sit like a tortoise, walk sprightly like a pigeon, and sleep like a dog.”
Clare burst out laughing. “Garth Hellyer! I am totally inured to Douglas’s teasing, but you—”
“I kid you not. That’s exactly what he said.”
She pushed her plate aside, still grinning. “It’s probably very good advice, then. Don’t some animals grow to be very old, too? I seem to remember something about a whale that was two hundred years old.”
I nodded. “That’s right, a bowhead whale. They found harpoons from the 1860s in the carcass, and then tissue tests showed it was even older.”
“I wonder if your Miss Brice swallowed a button or something like that when she was little?” she mused. “You know, a distinctly late nineteenth-century button. Or a coin with the date stamped on it. Then maybe you could x-ray her.”
I smiled, saying that she’d make an excellent longevity sleuth.
“At least you have her diaries,” she said, shooing Mars away from the table. “Surely they’ll help you clear up who she is.”
“I don’t think the diaries are actually hers.” I watched her fill up my water glass. “But I’ve agreed to read them. And since she seems a bit anxious about it, I’ll probably start tonight.”
Then I thought of something. “Clare, you were an English major, weren’t you? When I spoke with her, Miss Brice kept mentioning a name. Perdita.”
“Perdita. That’s from Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale.”
“Do you remember it?” I took another mouthful of the pie, determined that she send Donna a good report. “Even the bare bones of the plot might help me.”
“Oh, I know the story quite well. It’s a rather complicated plot, but the story begins with a jealous king: King Leontes of Sicilia. He accuses his beautiful and virtuous wife of having an affair with another king—Polixenes—who happens to be visiting. Queen Hermione is innocent, but the king doesn’t believe her.”
I slipped Mars a piece of crust and surreptitiously dropped a wedge of chicken for Farley by my foot.
“The jealous king unsuccessfully tries to poison his suspected rival,” Clare continued, “and he throws poor Queen Hermione into prison. He then sends emissaries to the Oracle of Delphi to verify his suspicions. In the meantime, Hermione has a baby in prison, and her maid, Paulina, brings it to the king, hoping that he will soften at the sight of the baby.”
“And does he?”
“That would make things much too easy! King Leontes is furious, convinced it’s not his child, and sends the baby off with his servant, Antigonus—ordering him to get rid of it.”
“I’m assuming the baby survives?”
“Yes. Antigonus leaves the infant on the coast of Bohemia—with a nice, big bag of gold—and she is rescued by a kindhearted shepherd and given the name Perdita. Her name means the ‘lost one.’”
“Don’t tell me this all has a happy ending.”
“Oh, Shakespeare was pretty skilled at reconciling the impossible threads of an impossible plot!”
“Go on,” I said, intrigued by the idea of a “lost” child.
“Well, much to the king’s consternation, the Oracle confirms that the queen and Polixenes are innocent. Then Paulina tells him that his wife has died in prison. The king is heartbroken and terribly r
emorseful. He also learns his son has just died and now he will have no heir unless the daughter he has just abandoned is found. It gets even more complicated but—”
“Maybe you should just tell me what happens to Perdita.”
“Perdita grows up to be a beautiful young woman. Her true identity as a princess is eventually revealed, and she’s reunited with her parents.”
“Reunited? With a father who wanted to get rid of her? And I thought her mother was dead.”
“Oh, His Royal Highness is very, very sorry for all his misdeeds…”
“Ah, the remorse of tyrants!”
“…and as for the Queen, she was never really dead, but hidden away by her faithful maid. Perdita eventually marries a handsome prince, Florizel, who also happens to be the son of Polixenes—”
“Good grief!” I interrupted. “What a plot!”
Clare laughed and began gathering up the plates. “It’s actually a wonderful play. I was in two productions of it at college. I played Perdita as a frosh and then Hermione in my senior year.”
“Two leading roles!” I was impressed. “Which did you like better?”
“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly stopping. “You know, I’ve never asked myself that question before.” She looked past me, frowning. “There’s a truly wonderful scene at the very end; in the garden of Paulina’s house. Queen Hermione appears as a statue, and at the sight of her, King Leontes falls to his knees, wildly distraught and deeply repentant. But much to his joy, she comes to life…” She hesitated.
“And forgives him,” I finished for her.
Clare shrugged her shoulders. “That, however, is only Shakespeare’s Perdita.” She smiled archly. “Of course you must remember Pongo and Perdita.”
“Who?”
“Perdita from 101 Dalmatians, Pongo’s mate.” Clare looked at me impishly. “Don’t you remember her? Really, Shakespeare is one thing, but not knowing your Disney! Now, that’s inexcusable.”
I got up to hold the screen door open for her.
“I should let you get to those journals,” she said over her shoulder. “Otherwise I’m going to feel guilty about keeping you from them.”
“Those sound like marching orders.”
“Not at all. And thank you so much for your help today. At least that pie will fortify you for the task ahead. I can take some comfort in that.”
We both walked back out to the deck and she looked up at me, holding my gaze for a few seconds. “Her eyes aren’t as piercingly blue as Marged’s,” I thought, but I liked their softness better.
“I think I’ll leave the rest of my unpacking until tomorrow,” she said, stifling a yawn. “My plan is to add to my longevity by sleeping like a dog tonight, but I suppose you’ll be sitting like a tortoise with those diaries.”
“Yes, I’ll be up for a few hours—but only after a sprightly-as-a-pigeon walk with Farley.”
Mars followed me down the steps, and I played a quick game of fetch with him on the beach while Farley watched. After several minutes of ordering Farley to “come” and then scolding him for refusing to obey, I finally picked him up and carried him over the rocks, telling myself that at least I had discovered one of Farley’s secrets for extending his longevity.
I thought longingly of bed, but I knew that I had to get to Marged Brice’s journals.
I poured myself a glass of scotch and sat down at my desk.
MARGED BRICE
Cape Prius—1897
April 16
At last our supplies have arrived!
I ran to get Father as soon as I saw the boat. Uncle Gil came, too, when he heard my cries for Tad. Both of them were so relieved, and Auntie Alis almost started to cry as we unpacked the crates. I had not been aware that our stores were so very low. She said this has been the worst year yet because the road was impassable, even to Mr. Brown’s farm. I do not think it likely that we will ever try to winter here again.
Tonight we had some of the bacon, and it was lovely not to have the aftertaste of vinegar in my mouth. I did not notice just how awful it was until today when we partook of our fresh provisions. Even Mother seemed to smile a little. I am sure that when she closed her eyes, it was not so much a savoring of its wonderful flavor, but more that she was giving a prayer of thanksgiving for our deliverance.
I am so glad that winter is finally ending. There are still bits of ice in the Bay, and it still looks very cold. But the long stretches of silence are gone. That long, deep, frozen silence that the winter brings and now the water is moving again and making so much noise.
Indeed, I am grateful to hear the water roaring again. For days it has been only the wind, dry and bitterly cold, moving about us as if the world were a great hollow place. The wind becomes such a rogue in the winter—or perhaps I am too harsh. Perhaps it is only lonely, left behind in restless, unending motion while the others sleep, oblivious to the dreary, bitter months of cold.
April 17
After supper I took the path down through the forest and out to the Basin to watch the lights on the boats. There are four anchored there tonight, each with a lantern fore and aft. They are setting up their camps on the shore, and then the men will be up early in the morning and off out into the Bay fishing.
In the darkness, I sometimes feel like an animal observing them, hidden from their view and my obscurity gives me a certain sense of…powerful invisibility, though I surprise myself in expressing it thus. The boats seem so safe in the Basin, like children nestled cozily in bed while the wind roars beyond the channel and howls at its own impotence to reach them. Indeed, I could hear the surf pounding beyond the Point; it seems just a stone’s throw from the boats and their tranquillity. How fragile does their peaceful repose look from my vantage!
It is still bitter cold in the evenings, and I borrowed Auntie Alis’s gray shawl to keep me warm. I love the sound of my skirts swishing through the dry grasses—as if I grow here, too, and am a part of this place, its flesh and blood. They were having a bonfire on the shore, near the Lodge, but I could not hear any voices. Sometimes it is so still I can hear a single whisper, but that won’t be until later in the summer. Now everything is thawing and stirring and returning to life in a grand cacophony of whispers.
I cut Father’s hair today—a sure sign that the summer season is coming. His hands are dreadful, filthy from the paraffin, and they smell dreadful, too. They will be like that for the next seven months. He and Uncle Gil have been cleaning and cleaning and getting the Light ready. I helped them with the glass, but honestly I know they came and polished again after me. Uncle Gil handed me an enormous pile of rags to be washed, and I have hidden half of them from Auntie A. She will begin her complaining, and then we will have seven months of that, too!
I begged Tad to let me trim his mustache. I can hardly see his mouth. But of course he will not let me. Tad is very particular about his mustache, and no one will ever be able to persuade him to grow a beard. Mother does not like them. That’s what he told me, and I am somehow pleased that he should still think of her wishes. He is always so kind to her—especially since her seizure—so gentle and attentive.
I love my Tad’s face. He ever seems to be smiling, and his eyes twinkle so. Maybe Tad’s mustache hides his sadness, but to us he is always bright and safe and sturdy. This winter we almost ran out of food, but he never once betrayed any anxiety. I only knew of his worry when the supply ship came yesterday and I saw him bent over the table, his shoulders twitching slightly. The ice was so terrible this year! I don’t know how the men came through it, but Tad was grateful and they knew it, though they would not let him show his gratitude and they joked about the five skeletons they expected to find. Men are very fine sometimes—and sometimes very terrible, too.
Now Tad will be up all night—and Uncle Gil, as well. I shall have to be quiet in the mornings when he is asleep. I shall make Auntie wal
k with me and keep her from making noise, for she has grown a little clumsy with age—though I should never dare to even suggest such a thing. We will go to her little Luke’s grave, and we shall make it tidy, and I think while she is praying I will make up a story for him, just as if he were a living boy. Auntie A. will like to go—it comforts her. And of course we can leave Mother quiet—she always is restful in the mornings.
But I—I am so restless with all these familiar things! I will be nineteen this year. Will I spend all of my days here? Living through the seasons like a blade of grass or one of the rocks down below? I feel as if I am waiting for something to happen and all the world around is poised, expectant—and yet it is only the spring coming. And the boats, and the boaters from the city, and the fishermen… They all come year after year. And yet, why do I feel this expectancy—for something! For someone?
April 24
Everyone is in such a foul temper today. The mantle would not light properly and Tad and Uncle G. have been growling at each other like two old dogs. Tad says Uncle Gil got the oil hot too quickly and Uncle G. is so sullen under criticism. Oh, they are like this every spring!
The problem with everyone is that they get so…so preoccupied with that Light. It is such an exacting master. Or a spoiled child, I cannot decide. Tad wouldn’t walk out with me to see the boats, and I so wanted him to see them. No doubt I shall have to spend all my evenings in the company of trees now that the Light must be tended, but of this I can hardly complain. I am sure the trees see and know everything. They will tell my thoughts to the wind, who will carry them to the Bay, and then they are taken everywhere, as far as the waves will travel. Sometimes I recite snippets of poems to them, and then I know it goes around the entire world, and every tree that is will hear it. And I think that perhaps they send their poems back to me…as if their swaying and stirring were a recitation. I like to think that this might be so.
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