by Sarah Maine
When he had finished, Ballantyre was silent for a long time, staring into the thickness of the forest beyond the riverbank, his rod propped in the front of the canoe, the line reeled in. Then he turned towards James. ‘We struggled for your soul, James,’ he said. ‘And I saw myself as your saviour, but it was the things Jacko taught you which saved your life.’
He looked across to the other side of the river where they could see the rest of the party, and his expression darkened. Dalston appeared to be carrying Evelyn from the shore to the bar midstream, and James heard Ballantyre swear softly.
‘Why is that man still free?’ James asked as they watched Dalston set her down and then stand behind her, his arms encircling her waist.
‘He won’t be for much longer,’ Ballantyre replied, his face grim. ‘But first I mean to settle with his father.’
‘It was Dalston who did the killing—’
‘His father would have seen you hang.’
‘But why do you wait?’
‘I need a confession from Dalston.’
James turned to him, staggered. ‘Is that all! I’ll get—’
‘One I can use in a court of law,’ Ballantyre said. ‘So bide just a little longer.’ They both looked over again to where Evelyn was now alone on the rocky bar.
‘And your daughter? She—’
‘Makes him believe his sins are forgiven.’
Out on the bar Evelyn had managed a very creditable cast. But she looked vulnerable there, alone, surrounded by the fast-moving current. ‘So she’s bait, is she?’
Ballantyre scowled at him. ‘No. Not bait—’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Ballantyre? But I tell you again, you should talk to her.’
Ballantyre turned and searched his face, but James sat mulishly silent. Let him learn from Evelyn herself what she had believed of him. And may it bring him pain—
There was a flash of colour as a kingfisher dropped like a dart from an overhanging branch beside them, rising a moment later with a silver minnow arching in its beak.
‘Take me back across,’ said Ballantyre.
Chapter 17
The finer points of the ladies’ fishing competition were being fiercely argued as the four younger members of the party made their way along the track to where the water was shallow enough to cross to the cobble and shingle bar. Rupert was now offering ludicrous odds in Evelyn’s favour.
‘You face ruin, you know,’ said George, ‘like when Thunderbolt fell at the last rail.’
‘I feel rather offended’ – Evelyn was making an effort to join in the spirit of the occasion – ‘being treated like a racehorse.’
‘Oh, men make a competition of everything,’ Clementina replied. ‘They simply can’t help it.’
‘And you’re going to romp home, Evelyn,’ said Rupert, ‘and make me a rich man.’
Somewhere along the journey the formality of address had been relaxed, but she was not sure where— She and Clementina sat on a boulder near the shore, while the men crossed over and made a few initial casts. Getting the lay of the land, Rupert explained.
Taking off her hat, Clementina delicately wiped the back of her neck with a handkerchief. ‘Oh, these wretched flies!’ Mr Skinner had offered them some evil-smelling paste but they both preferred the pungent leaves which Tala gave them, and Clementina had a handful in her pocket. ‘I suppose these work like dock leaves,’ she remarked, offering some to Evelyn then rubbing them between her palms and carefully behind her ears, ‘but as a prevention rather than a cure. I just long to have a bath and get properly clean.’ Clementina’s complaints were becoming more frequent as camp life began to pall.
Downstream, and in the shadows on the other side, Evelyn observed her father and James in one of the canoes. They appeared to be talking, and she would have given anything to know what was being said.
‘Isn’t it extraordinary to find someone from home in this wild place?’ Clementina said, following Evelyn’s gaze.
Extraordinary indeed.
‘Rupert’s struck!’ George called out, and they turned back to see Rupert’s rod bending, his line taut. They heard him crowing as he began to play his fish.
‘This one’s yours, Evelyn,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Come on. You land him and then we can start the bets. Bring her over here, George.’
‘Isn’t that cheating?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said George, stepping back over the stones towards them and offering Evelyn his hand.
But even as she rose, they heard Rupert curse. ‘Gone! Dammit. And taken a good few yards of line too, I expect.’ He reeled in, inspected the broken end, and waded back across to them. ‘As well as an excellent fly.’ He flung himself down beside her and began flipping through George’s fly book, dismissing them one by one. ‘Can’t lose too many either. I don’t expect these natives have a clue how to tie ’em. Except the morose Scotsman, maybe, if he’s a Tweed valley man—’ Then he straightened and patted his pocket. ‘But no! Wait!’ He pulled out a waxed paper parcel. ‘To the devil with your flies and your posturing, this’ll do the job for me.’ A brightly coloured jigger fell from the package, red with white spots, fish-shaped and lurid. He had acquired it in one of the dry-goods stores in Port Arthur, to the horror of George. ‘My God, man, have you no principles?’ he had said. ‘I wouldn’t let Ballantyre catch you using that.’
Rupert began attaching the jigger to his line, ignoring George’s further condemnations, and addressed Evelyn. ‘I expect you were taught to tie a fly rather than embroider a handkerchief, m’dear.’ He gave her his slow mocking smile, his hair falling forward. ‘I can imagine you sat at Papa’s feet, being shown the niceties of the Silver Doctor.’
She found herself smiling back. ‘He ties his own.’
‘I’ll bet he does.’
George joined them on the rocks. ‘And isn’t there some sort of voodoo or other he believes in? Dead parrot feathers or something?’
Evelyn shook her head at him. ‘It’s a secret.’
‘A secret dead parrot?’ said Rupert. ‘Do tell.’
‘He’d never forgive me; I’m surprised that George knows.’
‘I had it from one of your keepers, in his cups at the time,’ George replied. ‘The one who got himself murdered, poor fellow.’
And it was as if a cold hand had closed around her heart and a cloud shut out the sun. She turned her head away, feigning a renewed interest in what was happening downstream.
‘Whatever voodoo it is, it’s not exerting its magic now,’ Clementina remarked, again following her gaze. ‘I’ve only seen your father’s rod bend once.’
Rupert glanced across at the canoe on the far bank, and at the rod propped against the side. ‘But then, he’s not exactly trying—’ He watched them a moment longer then got to his feet and put out a hand to Evelyn. ‘So let’s show him up, shall we? That whopper’s still out there, you know, and I’ve got good money riding on this. No excuses now, up you get. Do your bit.’ And Evelyn found herself swept off her feet and lifted across the eddy to the narrow strip of stones and weed where he set her down, ignoring her protests. ‘There. Marooned. Now, fish, woman!’ His hands stayed on her shoulders a moment, then he bent to pick up the rod and stood behind her, his arms sliding round her waist from the back, his hands closing over hers, gripping the rod just as her father used to do when she was a child.
‘You chump, Rupert,’ Clementina called out quickly, and looked anxiously across the river. ‘Evelyn can cast every bit as well as you can.’
‘Better, probably,’ said Evelyn.
Dalston released her at once. ‘Apologies, I’m sure.’ He returned to the shore while Evelyn got her bearings and managed a good cast.
‘See!’
George applauded, and Evelyn heard Clementina commanding him to carry her across to join Evelyn on the shingle bar. They then fished side by side, watched with amusement by the two men, who sprawled lazily on the rocks. ‘An inspiring s
ight, eh, George? Two intrepid women, braving the wilderness.’
‘And if we could dress more sensibly we wouldn’t have to be moved about like sacks of potatoes,’ said Evelyn. ‘Pantaloons and waders are what is required.’
‘What a bewitching thought—!’
‘Be quiet, Rupert. Was that a bite you had?’ Clementina asked as Evelyn’s rod bent.
‘Weed in the current, I think.’
Evelyn cast again. Once, in another life, she had stood beside a different river, lulled by the gentle cooing of wood pigeons in the copper beeches, watching a cock pheasant scuttle across the path, neck outstretched. And there she would breathe in the heady scent of the wildflowers as she watched her father, quietly patient as he fished, soothed by the placid water, and in a state of contentment she felt she could never recapture.
‘I’m really quite hopeless at this,’ said Clementina, a moment later, twisting to release her skirt from the hook after a failed cast. ‘You do it so beautifully.’
‘She was taught by a master,’ she heard George say.
A master of evasion—
‘Neither of us are even getting a nibble!’ his wife protested.
—and deceit.
‘Your wrist was a little stiff on that last cast, my dear.’ Evelyn turned at her father’s voice and saw him emerging out of the trees to join them. She had not noticed the canoe’s return. ‘Never attempt to throw more than you can send out clean and straight. The one before was much better.’ He came across the rocks towards them. ‘But with the din you’re making you’re never going to catch anything. I thought I’d taught you better manners.’ He smiled dryly at Clementina. ‘And you, madam, are just as bad.’
‘Worse,’ said her husband.
Clementina laughed. ‘You men take it all far too seriously.’
‘It’s a serious business. Eh, Dalston?’
Dalston had gone to the water’s edge and cast his line, perhaps in an effort to hide the offending jigger from her father’s scrutiny.
‘What? Oh, absolutely.’
‘Walk back with me, my dear,’ her father said, turning to her, ‘unless you’ve a mind to fish a little longer?’ There was purpose in his tone. ‘No?’ He picked up her hat from the rocks and handed it to her. ‘Then you’ll excuse us, I hope.’ He nodded to the others and started back over the rocks. ‘Suppleness is everything, my dear,’ he continued, ‘and then follow through.’
They had reached the edge of the woods when Rupert gave a whoop and his rod bent. Ballantyre stopped, turning to watch as the water a yard or two off the shingle bar roiled and splashed. But though Rupert’s rod remained bent, the fight was quickly over and he reeled in as if pulling a piece of waterlogged wood. George made ready with the net and then scooped up the catch and held it high with a crack of laughter. ‘Ha! Serves you right.’
The red and white jigger was shamefully exposed along the creature’s jaw, its hook embedded in the bony lip of a narrow-bodied and ugly-looking fish.
‘Pike,’ remarked her father, and then continued up the rocks.
At the top of the bank, instead of going back up towards the camp, he paused and stepped onto a narrow track which led into the bush. ‘Let’s see where this takes us, shall we?’
Silently she followed him. And they continued in the same silence, single file, he in front pushing aside the low branches of larches and maples which covered the trail, and holding them for her. And in that silence a mixture of fear and anticipation grew inside her. This time he had sought her out—
The trail narrowed still further, closing in to form a cool dark tunnel which brought them eventually to a small clearing which overlooked a bend in the river. At one side was a stand of silver birch, and the low sunlight lit the slender trunks with a brilliant starkness, while the yellow leaves trembled and dropped to join their fellows below.
‘Let’s sit a moment, shall we—’ he said, and gestured to the shoulder of an outcropping rock. Then he wasted no more time. ‘Tell me, what did James say to you yesterday?’
‘Very little. You interrupted us.’
He gave a brief smile. ‘But what were you speaking of?’
‘Need you ask—’
‘No—’ From somewhere deep in the forest a song sparrow trilled its sweet melody, in counterpoint to the tension. ‘But tell me what he did say.’ His tone was perfectly calm, but she found that her breathing had become shallow, and she dug her fingernails into her palms. She had questions of her own.
‘James didn’t kill Jacko, did he?’
‘He told you that?’
‘He didn’t have to. I’ve always known.’ There, it was out—
His eyes explored her face. ‘How so?’ he said, at last.
She swallowed and her mind went blank as a sort of numb panic consumed her. ‘Because he had told me before.’ Something twisted deep inside her and she began to shake. Just a quiver at first— ‘Not yesterday. Five years ago. That night—’ She saw his eyes widen, then sharpen, and he was very still. ‘He told me that Jacko had died in his arms but not by his hand, which was why his shirt was all bloody.’ And then her whole body began to tremble.
‘His shirt—’
She felt suddenly sick and leant forward, putting her hands over her face, but he pulled them away, gripping her wrists, forcing her to sit upright again. ‘It was all over the front, and on the sleeves.’
His grip tightened. ‘Evelyn. What are you saying—?’
‘He told me that he hadn’t killed Jacko’ – she spoke in a small voice, as if the memory made her a child again – ‘but that a bloodstained shirt and your lies would hang him’ – she heard his sharp intake of breath – ‘and then you’d have his blood on your conscience too.’
He released her wrists and stared at her, suspending them both in a silence which seemed to last a lifetime. And when he did speak, it was slowly, and very gently. ‘Evelyn, my child. You must tell me the whole.’
Chapter 18
Larsen had asked Louis to bring him back to camp because, although the fishing had been good, he was in the fierce grip of indigestion. He had gone out too soon after eating, no doubt, but such attacks troubled him more frequently these days; and the heavy bannock which seemed part of their staple fare did little to improve matters. Skinner’s raw spirit which he had accepted the night before had also been a mistake— He put the back of his hand to his mouth to disguise a belch, and gently massaged his belly. But it was not only the food and the drink; the tension in the air was enough to give anyone the gripes. Ballantyre’s face was strained in the way it had been in those South African days when he had gambled everything on a hunch and a prayer. Evelyn had retreated inside herself, the row with her father perhaps not yet played out, and matters were not helped, he feared, by his own misplaced good intentions regarding Dalston. The easy camaraderie of the voyage through the Great Lakes had somehow evaporated amongst the trees and Dalston himself seemed ill at ease: too prone to loud laughter, too fond of his hip flask. Only Melton seemed content, amiably discussing fishing and hunting with Skinner and the guides, knocking back Skinner’s evil spirit with the confidence of a man of easy conscience and a sound digestion.
He could just see the four younger members of the party out on the shingle bar, and Ballantyre was still fishing in the shadows across the river. Everyone was occupied. So a moment of calm— He reached into his pocket and drew out a leather-bound volume, so well worn that the gilded lettering had rubbed away, and set his spectacles on his nose. After years as a banker he fancied himself to be a fair judge of people, but there were crosscurrents here that he did not understand, and they disturbed his tranquillity. He needed to take refuge in Thoreau’s sound and simple philosophy, an infallible cure for all woes.
Ballantyre had mocked him earlier when he saw what he was reading. ‘Wasn’t it Thoreau who claimed he could draw fish to his boat by playing his flute—?’ Larsen had said that it was. ‘Then New England trout must be a damn sight more cultured
than these hard-nosed Nipigon brutes. What a dreamer! But at least he had a healthy contempt for philanthropy.’
‘I thought you’d take issue with him on that—’
‘Once, maybe.’
He opened the book, but after just a few minutes he sighed and put it aside, the words were simply not going in, so he closed his eyes and put his head back, letting the sounds of the forest soothe him. Somewhere he heard the call of the song sparrow, so sweet on the afternoon breeze, and from deeper in the forest came the hollow drumming of a woodpecker. Whatever problems there were, they were not his problems, he reminded himself, and soon his only concern would be how to fill his time. And besides, matters had a way of resolving themselves.
He dozed for perhaps half an hour and then awoke, and his thoughts returned at once to Ballantyre. Perhaps it was the bank’s business which had caused the strain to return to his eyes. Cold feet? Surely not, not Ballantyre! He had nerves of steel— But this new mining venture was beginning to obsess the man, quite unnecessarily so, as Larsen had tried to tell him the evening before in their tent.
‘You don’t need to pursue this, you know, Charles,’ he had said as they were preparing for the night. ‘There’s sufficient capital to withstand any number of defaulters in the short, or even medium term.’ He paused, then asked bluntly. ‘Are you thinking of Earl Stanton?’
Ballantyre had looked up. ‘No. Why Stanton?’
‘He’s stretched pretty thin.’ But Ballantyre had simply shrugged, so Larsen had not pressed the matter. ‘I really believe that the worst of this crisis is over now, things will stay flat perhaps before they recover, they always do. And anyway, the vein at Der Veen gulch shows no sign of petering out, does it?’ Ballantyre agreed that it did not. ‘I know it’s as well to have another string to your bow, but opportunities will present themselves. You’re very well placed.’