Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  Chapter 9

  The Dobson sisters did not make an appearance at breakfast the next morning. Relieved of their bickering, Grace enjoyed her porridge, tea and toast in relative quiet. While Marge laid the fire in the black leaded grate, Mrs M bustled back and forth from the kitchen offering advice on the prettiest route through town for Grace’s intended walk, together with the location of the nearest bank.

  “Not that I’m angling for payment, Grace, my dear. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

  “I like to settle my obligations, Mrs M. You have a business to run after all.” She nodded to where Marge had finished setting the fire and now clattered pots enthusiastically in the scullery. “Marge sounds a little cross this morning.”

  “That’s because her man, Rab was out until the early hours again. His first week off the night boats and he spends it drinking cold tea with his mates in some cellar. She’s a bit peeved with him, though I wish she wouldn't take it out on my crockery.”

  A penchant for cold tea didn’t sound much of a reason to be angry, Grace mused. Perhaps this Rab possessed other unpleasant characteristics?

  Dressed in her thickest petticoats and best coat, Grace set off at a little after ten o’clock in search of the Merchants Bank, which turned out to be a short walk from the boarding house. An Italianate style three storey building of deep red brick with arched windows beneath a low hipped roof sat at the corner of Great George and King Streets. A thin, boyish clerk wearing too short trousers that flapped around his ankles greeted her with an oblique look when she asked to see the manager. At discovering she did not have an appointment, he appeared reluctant to oblige, until Grace informed him she wished to open an account.

  In contrast, the manager, Mr Hill, received her cordially and having presented Mr Beech’s letter of introduction, the atmosphere of the entire interview changed to pure business and ingratiating respect.

  “Might I ask what your plans are for here in Charlottetown, Mrs MacKinnon?” Mr Hill asked once he had instructed the same clerk to make the appropriate arrangements to have Grace’s funds wired from London.

  “I haven’t made any firm ones as yet, but I have a mind to buy a property.” The idea only just occurred to her but spoken aloud sounded like a sensible use of her money. “I’ve only seen a small part of the town, but the houses are quite beautiful.” The more she talked, the more appealing the notion became. If she could afford a villa in Chiswick, surely her money would buy her one of the pretty cottages in Charlottetown? Perhaps a pastel painted one with a veranda and bay windows?

  “An excellent suggestion. Have you seen anything you like?”

  “I only arrived yesterday, Mr Hill. I shall have to take a look at the market and become more familiar with the town.”

  “A wise decision.” He studied her papers over his half-moon spectacles for a moment. “I see you reside at Mrs Mahoney’s.”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “An excellent establishment. And if you decide to invest funds to provide an income, I would be happy to offer some advice.”

  “That’s very kind. I’ll give it some thought.” With confirmation of her first ever bank account tucked safely inside her bag, Grace strode back onto the street with a new spring in her step. The rest of the day was a blank page, so with no particular direction in mind, she wandered the wide, shaded streets, looked into shop windows and admired the numerous churches that proliferated on every other street.

  She returned to Great George Street and walked north to the Market Hall, a square, two storey brick building that stretched over half a block. Its Gothic style sported a high-pitched roof with sandstone dressed gables. Curiosity drew her inside to where the ground floor was arranged as an indoor market, the stalls aligned in sections according to their type.

  Cuts of meat were laid out on thick wooden tables, while whole carcases hung from hooks on racks attached to the wall behind them, the coppery tang in the air declaring the section to be the butchery. A layer of sawdust on the floor muffled footsteps and absorbed blood spillages. The fish section exuded the tang of salt, another designated for fruit and flowers in a fragrant array of color, among them garden smells of bay, thyme and earthy potatoes. Buyers crowded the aisles to browse and haggle for goods with the stallholders who called out entreaties to passers-by to purchase their foodstuffs. Set beneath the enclosed roof, the constant noise bore down on her until almost giddy, she stepped outside again and took a deep lungful of salt laden air.

  At a bakeshop in the flour and meal section, she bought a hot pasty for her lunch, taking it into Queens Square next door to the market, where she occupied one of the long benches below a hexagonal bandstand, empty now, but which promised lively entertainment on summer days.

  The pathways were flanked with neat, symmetrical flower beds she imagined would be filled with color when the warmer weather arrived. When she bit into the still warm pasty she realized how hungry she was. She ate slowly, savouring the layers of buttery pastry that enclosed tender slices of meat and a rich sauce, watching horse drawn carts, buggies and private carriages hurrying by, giving an almost pastoral feel to the town. The lack of motor cars seemed odd until she remembered what John Cahill said about them upsetting the horses. Lone gentlemen, couples and ladies in small groups strolled the square and adjoining streets, some of whom nodded a good day to her as they passed.

  Grace smiled, at peace with her surroundings, made more intense by the fact Angus MacKinnon would never find her there. She liked to think that she had made friends, or at least acquaintances in Andrew Jardine and the Cahill's. Emily notwithstanding. She couldn't quite forget the removal of the business card, certain it was her doing.

  As the afternoon progressed, the wind picked up and abandoning her perch, she wandered back along Queen Street towards the dark line of ocean in the distance and down to the jetties that reached like long arms into the Northumberland Strait.

  The wind was stronger without the shelter of the buildings and with one hand clamped on her hat, she surveyed the harbour with its variety of fishing smacks, private yachts and ferries. When one left the quay, its horn sounding, an incoming vessel jostled for position against the wharf and disgorged a stream of eager passengers.

  Seagulls screamed and whirled overhead, diving for scraps thrown from the boats unloading their haul of fish. Like Grace, ladies clamped their hats to their heads and ducked to avoid the swooping birds or harried their children towards the station to catch a train to far flung towns Grace didn't know the names of. Idly she wondered if the SS Elizabeth was still tied up at Lords Wharf and considered going to look for the boat, but to see it lying locked up and empty might tarnish her memories of the previous day, so instead, she set off back to Mrs Mahoney's.

  It was mid-afternoon before she stepped through the front door, its stained- glass sailboat spread on the boards of the hallway in a rainbow of light. She hung up her coat and went in search of Mrs M, whom she found in the kitchen. Beneath the sharp eye of Marge, Grace counted out her payment for a week's board in Canadian dollars onto the table.

  “I appreciate your promptness, m'dear, but I knew you were good for it.” Mrs M scooped up the notes and tucked them into her pocket, giving Marge a clear I-told-you-so look which made Grace smile.

  “You found your way about all right then did you, dear,” Mrs M asked brightly.

  “I did. It was remarkably easy with all the streets set out in a grid pattern, although the wind tends to funnel down them and cuts through your clothes.”

  “You wait until the summer comes, my love. You'll be glad of a breeze or two then. Not that it gets as hot as it does on the mainland. Did you buy some postcards to send home to England? I'm, sure your friends and family would like to hear you've arrived safely.”

  “Might I trouble you for some more towels, Mrs M?” Grace avoided the woman's eye. “I would like to bathe and wash my hair and my towel is probably still damp from this morning.”

  “Of course,
dear. I suggest you do so before five o'clock, which is when the Dobsons will be back. They tend to monopolise the bathroom on your floor before supper.”

  “I'll do that,” her question as to whom she shared the bathroom now answered. “And thank you for the bottle of lemon oil in my room. That was very thoughtful. I'll use some in my bathwater.”

  “That's not for bathing, sweetheart, that's for the bugs.”

  “Bugs?”

  “Midges. You won't see 'em, but you'll feel 'em bite right enough.' Marge stretched on tip-toes to replace a pile of plates on the dresser.

  “Invisible bugs?” Grace asked, mildly alarmed.

  “Not quite but they're tiny.” Mrs M laughed. “It's a bit early for them, but April is just around the corner and it don't hurt to be ready. I like to leave a bottle of lemon oil in each of the rooms for my guests. The critters come out at sundown and again around dawn, so on warm nights keep your legs covered. My lady boarders tend to suffer the most. Could be because we smell better than the men?”

  “Is the oil to repel the bugs or soothe the bites?” Grace asked. “Both dear. Vinegar works just as well, but I doubt you'll want to smell like a pickle.” Mrs M covered her mouth with a hand and giggled behind it. “Now as for those towels, I’ll bring some up to your room presently.”

  “Thank you, but really, there's no need. I’m quite happy to come and fetch them. If you would just show me where they are.”

  “Um- all right then, dear. If you insist.”

  The woman’s obvious reluctance puzzled Grace as she followed her along the hall and down four steps to a half-basement, at the end of which was a deep linen cupboard lined with tightly packed shelves of pristine white sheets, pillowcases and towels. A door opposite stood open to reveal a room with chairs laid out around the walls, strategically placed oil lamps on small tables set at intervals.

  On a sideboard at the far end obviously full green bottles, their contents a mystery, stood behind a neat row of china teacups in various flowered patterns. Grace could see nothing which would explain Mrs M’s sudden change of mood.

  “There you are, dear.” Mrs M selected a pile of fluffy white towels and handed them to her. “Should keep you going for a while.”

  “Are you having a party this evening, Mrs Mahoney?” Grace nodded to the open door.

  “Oh, um, sort of.” Mrs M's cheeks reddened and flustered, she pulled the door closed and stood in front of it. “Some friends of mine are due over for a light social. Church business you understand.”

  “How nice. I hope you have a lovely evening. Oh, and thank you for these.” Grace hugged the towels to her middle and climbed the stairs to her room, bemused. Perhaps her landlady thought she was angling for an invitation to her soiree?

  Chapter 10

  At the beginning of Grace’s second week in Charlottetown, she went down to breakfast to find the parlour empty, despite the fresh toast and pancakes laid out on the table along with a pot of hot tea. She was half-way through her second slice of toast, when the back door banged shut and Mrs M’s voice drifted through from the kitchen.

  “You’d best clear up the lower room before the guests come down, Marge, I need those bottles taken out before anyone sees them.” She halted in the doorway, her eyes widening and almost dropped the milk jug she held. “Grace, dear. Is it that time already?”

  “Good morning, Mrs M.” Grace glanced at the clock, but she was no earlier than usual. “That’s the third church social this week. The Parish Council certainly keeps you busy.”

  “That’s right, dear.” Mrs M retreated into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later. “There are always so many things to discuss.”

  Grace poured herself a second cup of tea, then held up the empty milk jug. “May I have some more?”

  “Oh, what am I thinking?” Mrs M’s cheeks flushed an unbecoming red. “I had the jug in my hand but took it right back out again. Silly me.” She disappeared again, returning with the jug which she placed at Grace’s elbow. “Did you say you planned to visit Victoria Park today, dear?”

  “You might recall I went there yesterday. You were right, it’s a beautiful spot with so many peaceful places with lovely views of the coastline among the trees, I could have stayed all afternoon.”

  “When I was a child, my Pa used to take us to the Battery every Sunday to listen to the military bands. I don't have the time for such things much these days.” Mrs M wiped her hands on her apron and took a chair at the far end of the table. “Have you made any plans for the future yet, dear? Not that I want you to leave, but it’s not right for a lady like you to be living in a boarding house. I imagine you’re accustomed to a better sort of life.” She eyed Grace’s cameo and pearl brooch pinned to her hand-embroidered silk blouse.

  Silently, Grace agreed. Mrs Mahoney's might be safe and comfortable but did not form part of any long-term plan.

  “I have an idea, Mrs M, but it’s not much of one at this stage.” A sudden thought occurred to her and she glanced up in alarm. “You don’t need my room, do you?”

  “No, no dear, don’t you fret on that.” She splayed her work-worn hands in surrender. “I’m not expecting any new boarders until Easter, and what with the Dobson’s going home next week, I’m glad to have you.” She twisted around in her chair. “Marge, fetch that package for Grace would you?”

  “Yes, Mrs M.” Marge entered carrying an oilskin wrapped package fastened with a length of string which she handed to Grace.

  “I thought you might like a few sandwiches for your lunch.” Mrs M beamed at her.

  “That’s very kind,” Grace said. “The pasties from the market hall baking stall were very good, but I was becoming bored with eating the same thing every day.” She held up the package. “These will make a nice change.”

  The sounds of mild squabbling from the hallway heralded the arrival of the Dobson’s, prompting Grace to drain her teacup and scrape back her chair. “I’ll see you later, Mrs M. Thank you for these.” She swept up the wrapped parcel and made a rapid exit.

  After another tour of the shops, churches and garden squares Charlottetown offered, Grace returned to Queens Square and sat on her favorite bench by the bandstand.

  The elderly gentleman she saw every day waved his walking cane at her in greeting as he passed. Grace smiled and waved back, dismayed at the fact everyone appeared to have somewhere to go, whereas she had wasted another morning in aimless wandering and still not reached a firm decision.

  She unwrapped Mrs M’s parcel of sandwiches and picked one out, peering at the layer of mysterious brown paste between two layers of bread. She gave it a tentative sniff, then poked it suspiciously with a finger. It didn’t smell fishy, in fact it didn’t smell at all. She sighed, wishing she had bought a pasty after all.

  Tearing off a piece, she threw it to a brace of beady-eyed seagulls that pecked at the grass nearby. The birds squabbled over their prize, the morsel consumed in seconds.

  She tossed a second piece onto the grass, where two more gulls joined the first, creating an explosive ruckus as they fought for possession. The brown goo stuck to her fingers, and she absently licked them, surprised at the slightly rough texture on her tongue which tasted sweet, rich and nutty.

  Curiosity drove her to take a bite of the second sandwich, then another. She chewed slowly, the flavor becoming more palatable as she ate. As she popped the last piece into her mouth, the seagulls squawked in protest and flew off.

  “Sorry birds,” she whispered. Refolding the oiled wrapping, she returned it to her bag. Traces of the paste lingered in her mouth and between her teeth, the flavor unusual, and strange but also satisfying. She must ask Mrs M what it was when she returned to the boarding house.

  Leaving the square, she strolled up Prince street, admiring the pastel painted clap board houses with their picket fences and neat gardens, her thoughts troubled. Perhaps Emily Cahill was right, and she might have to make do with being a country schoolmarm after all. The prospect dismayed her,
but if she didn't think of something quickly, she was in danger of drifting, precisely what she had run away from England to avoid.

  She noticed a 'For Sale' sign on a post outside a three-storey house on the corner of Prince and Sidney streets with white painted clapboard and wood architraves on deeply pitched gables. Quite different from houses styles she was used to in England, but it reminded her of fairy tale houses in story books she read as a child, with its covered verandas and tiny balcony. A covered porch on one side led to a covered veranda across the front elevation, behind which were three square bay windows. A small balcony on the upper floor was supported by two columns, balusters and a gabled roof. The house looked hunched between its more affluent neighbors so as not to draw attention to itself. Much like herself in some ways. She tried to imagine what difference a few pots of colorful flowers arranged on the porch would make, and maybe a trailing vine or two hung from the eaves.

  “Can I help you, madam?” a voice said from behind her.

  Grace jumped and swung around to where a dapper-looking young man regarded her curiously from a few feet away. He wore a grey suit with a fine red stripe and a deep green tie, a brown fedora perched at an angle on his fair hair.

  “Not really. The house caught my eye, so I stopped to admire it.”

  “This is indeed a fine property.” He slapped a hand on the fence rail which wobbled beneath his touch and scanned the street quickly, frowning. “I was expecting a couple called Miller to see the house. Are you-?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” His gaze slid past her to the street.

  “Does it occur to you I might be interested?” Her hackles rose at his casual dismissal, although it was unlikely the house was within her budget.