"It's like a secret hideaway," exclaimed Hannah, leaping out of the punt as Luke put ashore into the natural harbour formed by the curving of the pool, for indeed, once inside the waterway, the beach banked up, concealing all sight of the ocean from view, leaving them surrounded by giant leafy birches and aspens that buffeted the sounds of the wind and sea, enclosing them with the roar of Chouse and the chirping of a dozen songbirds as they flitted from bush to bush.
"Daddy," asked Hannah, after he'd moored the punt to a rock, and they were sitting untangling their lines besides the brook, "how come Mommy won't ever go inside Aunt Missy's house?"
"It's the uncle I think she steers clear of."
"But he's never, ever there when she comes."
"Perhaps it's because she misses her mother and father too much to see their things."
"She liked the flower bed—and that was her mother's thing."
Her father paused, the string dangling from his fingers. "You know something, lovey—that's a right smart thing you just said."
"That she likes the flower bed?"
"Yup. So it must be her father's things she don't want to see, heh?"
"Lynn says Grandfather Job still haunts his room."
"Now there'd be a real good reason to steer clear."
"Aunt Missy says Lynn's nosier than her mother."
"Sounds like a smart woman, your aunt Missy."
"Lynn says we're all a bit loony, with you never going up the Basin, and Aunt Missy never coming down here, and Mommy never going inside her own house, and me never wanting to leave once I'm there."
"A good thinker is young Lynn; like her father, I'd say. Pass me your hook."
"She said she dreamed one night what you looked like taking the fits."
"Cripes—must've been some awful night."
"She said you looked like this." And turning to him, she started snorting and holding her breath and crossing her eyes.
"Yup—some awful night. But it was more like this, lovey," and saying so, he flung himself upon her, eyes crossed, snorting and grunting like a pig gone mad.
He dug his fingers into her ribs till she was screaming, "Stoopppp, Stoooppp!!!" And then when she was senseless with laughing, he stopped tickling her and stuck out his tongue, huge and wet like a big puppy's, and slapped a lick on the side of her face.
"Daaddeee!!"
"Now then, you ready to start working?" he asked, squatting back on his haunches, digging into the worm can.
"Yuuulllkkk!" she grimaced, sitting back up, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Lynn said you was the one drove Grammy Prude foolish like she is."
"I think her father had a hand in that. Where's your hook?—got your hook?"
"There was three of ye, and ye was always together, robbing eggs."
"Yup, that's right."
"And Lynn said the other fellow, Gid, was ugly."
The hand piercing the worm onto her hook stilled. "You oughtn't be listening to Lynn all the time," he said so quietly, so very, very quietly she had to strain over Chouse to hear him. "Here, take your rod."
Standing side by side, they tossed their lines into Chouse and, loathing the tongue that followed Lynn's, she watched as he wandered off by himself, the water swirling around his thigh-rubbers and the spray dampening his hair. She followed as far as her knee-rubbers would take her, and after a spell, as he wandered farther and farther to the centre of the pool, she sloused ashore, tossing down her rod and taking the little path that trailed up along the river. Patches of orange on a tall spruce caught her attention. Fairy butter. Picking up a sharp-edged rock, she scraped the bark clean and, wrapping the fairy butter in a fern, lodged it in her pocket. Then she went looking for more. Catching hold of a bare tree root, she swung past a rock wall made smooth by running water, then step-stoned to where the river had spread out, ankle deep in some places, six feet in others. Coming upon a clump of boulders near the middle of the river, she climbed atop one. Looking back, she watched as her father, standing knee deep in his favourite fishing hole, swung his line to an eddy nearer the far side. He'd stand for hours at the mouth of Chouse, hooking saltwater trout. And once, a year ago, when she'd sat on this very spot looking back at him, and he was sitting on an old log lodged between two rocks, she had thought he was a shrub growing out of it.
"That's it," he had exclaimed with glee when she'd told him later, "that's exactly what I am, lovey, a part of this whole blessed spot. I eats the trout, grows its flesh and grunts it back out to feed the gulls. Blessed is he, my lovey, who fishes a river."
"Daddy?" she called out, running back along the trail.
"Over here," he replied from below a knoll, a fire already started. And coming out onto the beach, she squatted besides him, watching as the cone-shaped slut kettle started boiling, and he tossed a good six-pounder into the frying pan sitting on the rocks besides him, wearing the satisfied look of Brother after a good suckling, chasing away the last of the morning's shadow.
IT WAS HER AUNT WILLAMENA waiting on the shore to greet them as her father rowed them ashore later that afternoon. Prude was standing on the bank, wringing her hands, and the young fellows, Roddy and Marty, were waiting to haul up the punt as Luke leaped over the side, up to his knees in water, calling out, "What's happened?"
"Clair got a message, Luke, b'ye," said Willamena, taking the piece of orange-rimmed paper out of her pocket, "from the office clerk, Alma, and it don't say nothing, only Clair got to come up and see her right away. It just come—about ten minutes ago and she's in some way, Clair is."
"Something's happened to her sister, I allows," cried out Prude, hurrying along besides Luke as he made for the house, "else they wouldn't send a message like that, they wouldn't."
"You wait out here, old woman," ordered Luke. "She won't need to hear your worrying." Darting past her, he tore in through the door, Hannah besides him. A hand grabbed at the back of Hannah's coat and she turned with a snarl as Willamena tried to haul her back, saying, "Your mother don't need youngsters—wait here with Grammy."
"I won't," snapped Hannah, tearing away and bolting after her father, Williamena's scandalized tuttings following her. Her mother was sitting in her rocker, her face paler than the bare skin of Brother's bottom as she held on to his flailing legs, diapering him. Nora stood besides her, ready to catch the baby should her trembling hands fail.
"She won't let me take the baby for a second," cried Nora as Luke hurried in across. "I don't know why somebody would send a message like that; Lord, better if they just out with it—whatever it is."
"Clair, if something happened to Missy, they wouldn't sent a message," said Luke, holding on to her hands and letting Nora take the baby. "They would've come themselves. Come—let's get ready—I'll go with you."
"You must think it bad," she cried out, "else you wouldn't offer to come like this."
"No, lovey, don't," said Luke, helping her up from the chair. "Nothing's happened with Missy; the message would've said so. Come on, now. Let's go get dressed."
"Praise be," said Prude, wringing her hands in the doorway.
"Now, Mother, come on with me," said Nora, wrapping a blanket around the baby. "Hannah, pass me some of them diapers in the basket there, and look in the crib for his bottle and dumb-tit. You're going up with her?" she asked Willamena, who had inched in ahead of Prude.
"Yes, maid, I'll go with her. Frankie's in the shed, getting some oil for the boat." She turned to Luke. "Unless you wants to take her—" But Clair was shaking her head.
"It'll be fine, Luke; you watch over Hannah."
"I'm going too," Hannah cried out, but her mother was shaking her head. "You stay with your father," she replied and turned impatiently from the splutter of protest rising to Hannah's lips.
"Go rock Brother for Aunt Nory," said her father, lending an encouraging smile over his shoulder as he led her mother to the stairs. "Go on, now," he said more loudly as Frankie's voice sounded from outside.
"Yes, you come rock Bro
ther," coaxed Nora. "Pass me the diapers—hurry now," she said, balancing the baby in one arm. Lifting some of the diapers onto her aunt's arm, Hannah backed towards the stairs. "I'll come in a minute, Aunt Nory," she said soberly, and after the aunts and Prude had left, she closed the door behind them, and bolted to the washstand. Lathering up a froth on her hands, she scrubbed her face and neck, and reaching blindly for the towel, dried it well with both hands. Snagging a comb through her hair, she took to the stairs, ducking into her room the same instant her father came out of his. She held her breath, listening as he walked with her mother down the stairs, murmuring encouragements to not go worrying, that everything was fine. Finally the door closed behind them, leaving the house in silence. Tearing off her dirty clothes, Hannah pulled on a clean pair of socks, a skirt and a nice sweater. Lifting the fairy butter out of her dirtied pants pocket, she very carefully placed it inside her skirt pocket. Fixing her sweater down over the bulge, she peered out the window. They were all there—Frankie standing in his boat, helping Willamena aboard, Prude tutting on the bank and Luke leading Clair, as if she'd suddenly become crippled, down over the bank. When at last her father was helping her mother aboard the boat, Hannah sped down over the stairs, through the front door and out onto the bank.
"Mommy!"
"I wants to go, Mommy—I wants to go," she cried out, clinging to her mother's skirt.
"Hannah!" snapped Clair and it were as though she'd lashed her daughter with a strap, so sharp was her tone and so quick did Hannah withdraw. And then her father was taking her by the hand, leading her towards the bank and Grammy Prude's chastising, and Nora's cajoling her to come rock Brother, and was that not Willamena's tsking sounding over the wind, the lop and the gulls?
"She's not mad, lovey; she's just upset," said her father, bending to one knee, stroking her shiny red cheek as the tears welled up. "She'll take you with her next time she goes—I knows she will. Just go with Aunt Nory now, till I comes for you, and perhaps Frankie will make a special trip to take you next week—"
Frankie. The tears dried in Hannah's eyes. Tearing away from her father, she darted back to the boat, her eyes narrowed and her mouth open, bellowing, "You said, Frankie! You said!"
Frankie looked to her as speechless as her father. Then smoothing back his hair, he shrugged, raising a brow towards Clair. "I did say," he said. Lifting his hand to quiet Willamena's protest, he added abruptly, "Throw her aboard. We can look after her while Clair's doing her business. Lynn will be there. What's one more?"
Getting a nod from her mother, her father scooped her off her feet, his coarse warnings to be good subduing any feelings of gratitude she might like to have expressed to Frankie as he reached down, lifting her into the boat. Shivering past her mother and Willamena, she scurried to the stern, taking up seat besides the tiller.
"Be sure you steers us straight," called out Frankie as the piston caught fire and they started forward, "else we'll be meeting with the folk on Miller's Island."
She managed a grateful look for him, and turning guiltily from her mother's brooding eyes, and ignoring the tutting of Willamena's tongue, she raised her eyes towards the Basin, one hand wrapped tightly around the tiller, the other pressed against the fairy butter soaking through the cotton of her skirt and dampening the skin beneath.
The postmistress, Alma, was standing besides the rotting-down old store on the wharf, watching as they drew closer. "I been out on the road every five minutes since I sent the message," she said as Clair climbed up on the wharf behind Willamena. "I suppose I got you scared to death, do I?"
"Is it Missy?" asked Clair, her voice quavering.
"Missy's fine," said Alma, taking Clair's hand. "I should've made sure and said that on the message, I should've. And perhaps I shouldn't have sent the message at all, just waited till you come back up agin and called you in—"
"It's not just Clair you got worried," said Willamena. "We're all worrying about what could be wrong."
"Well, ye can all stop," said Alma, "because it's Clair's concern, and nothing that can be settled in a day." She directed Clair towards the road, saying, "Come, my dear. We goes up to the house and haves a cup of tea. You'll be going up to your mother's, I suppose?" she asked Willamena. "Perhaps you can take Hannah with you till we sends for her."
But Hannah was already inching her way from the group, edging towards the road. "I'm—I'm going to Aunt Missy's," she faltered, a careful look at her mother.
"I suppose that's fine," said Alma, waving Hannah onward. "Tell her your mother will be along after tea—because she knows I've sent for her, poor thing—" Brushing away the concerns her words welled up once more in Clair, she led her towards the post office with stout reassurances that everything was fine, truly, everything was fine. Receiving a nod from her mother, Hannah kicked up heels, racing towards her aunt.
The door was shut and the curtains drawn on this fine summer's evening. Quieting her step, Hannah inched open the door, peering inside. Missy was sitting besides the table, her hair tightly pulled back and clipped, and her face greyed by the curtained light. A dark shawl of sorts lay around her shoulders, and she looked to Hannah as if she were a hundred years old and as if she'd been cast in stone. She didn't move as Hannah entered, but remained sitting with a straight back on her chair, eyes cast down and her hands clasped in her lap like a child's in prayer. More surprising to Hannah was the sight of him, the uncle, sitting there; this man who was always rabbit catching or fishing or woodcutting whenever her mother was expected. He turned to her, his face shrivelling further with the weight of the evening shadow, and his shirt wrinkling around the thin shoulders supporting it.
It wasn't till Hannah dashed to her knees did Missy turn, the liquid black of her pupils hardening like coal as she stared transfixed at the door Hannah had left open behind her.
"What's wrong, Aunt Missy?"
"Did she come?" she asked, her tone sullen, heavy.
"Who, Mommy?"
"Where is she?"
"She's talking with Alma. Are you sick? How come you looks sick?"
"Do I?" she asked, her eyes letting go of the door, her fingers cool as she touched them to Hannah's cheek and then her own. "Come," and rising, she led Hannah across the stairwell into the sitting room. "She shouldn't have brought you," she said woodenly, giving Hannah a little hug. "You sit in here till she comes—"
"But she's having tea with Alma."
"She won't be long—you sit here, now—ooh," she added with a sudden rush, dropping her arms around Hannah's shoulders and hugging her tight. "She shouldn't have brought you—why did she bring you?"
"Because I made her," said Hannah proudly, snuggling her cheek against the tightly clipped hair. "I know," she exclaimed, pulling back, "we can wait in the garden—ohh, Aunt Missy—I got some fairy butter."
"Leave it there," said Missy, laying a hand on Hannah's as she reached it into her pocket. "Just—leave it there for now. And stay here till I sends for you. Promise," she said more tightly, cutting off further protests. At Hannah's nod, she dropped a kiss on her forehead and rose, backing into the stairwell, a ghost of a smile quivering her bottom lip, leaving an imprint upon Hannah's mind of a frightened youngster too far gone astray. Hannah strained, listening as Missy ran across the kitchen, her chair creaking beneath her weight, and the uncle's voice mumbling about something—as it mostly did. Then, silence.
Looking around the sitting room, she perched on the edge of a wooden chair, the sense of wrongdoing permeating the air too heavy for the feather-softness of the daybed. The house sighed. She heard it, along with that of her aunt, and the moaning of the half-boiling kettle. Her mother would fix it. Despite all, and no matter what, her mother would fix it. Her mother fixed all things. That she knew. If only she would hurry. Sitting back on her chair, her fingers gripping its edges, she allowed herself to breathe, praying for her mother to come. Ohh, was there ever a moment that took so long in the fortitude of a child's prayer?
Finally, th
e door opened and she clutched onto her chair as her mother spoke Missy's name, her tone hushed. Then it was the uncle she was speaking to, and her voice dropped, hardened, becoming cold. Hannah crept into the stairwell, wanting to hear, to share with them the sorrow so levied upon this precious aunt; but anger born out of yesterday's malice brings with it a vengeance far more frightful than that following a cheeky tongue or disobeyed command. Thus when she crept into the stairwell, inching towards the kitchen, and her mother spun towards her, her features trembling with a rage that was scarcely suppressing itself, and bade her wait upstairs in Missy's room till she was called, Hannah gave up any further notions of challenging her mother on this day and trailed dutifully upstairs, sitting onto the bed that her aunt and mother had slept in as girls.
Their voices were low, and she scarcely breathed with wanting to hear. Then the sound of Missy sobbing. Leaping to her feet, she ran back to the door, pressing her ear against it. Missy's cries sounded louder, and Hannah bit onto her fists for fear of crying alongside of her.
"She'll stay here," said Sim loudly, accusingly.
"She'll stay where she wants," snapped Clair, more angrily, more accusingly. And then beseechingly, she begged, "Missy, please, please come with me; I wants you to come with me—"
"No! Don't make me, Clair; I won't, I won't ever," shouted Missy, her voice weak despite its loudness, and then her footsteps running into the stairwell and up over the stairs. Hannah ran back to the bed, sitting down as Missy burst in through, slamming the door behind her, and turning a key in the lock. Looking at Hannah, her cheeks glistening with tears, and her lips puckered like a dried rosebud, she clasped her hand to her mouth, trying to keep from crying further.
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