Bright Island

by Mabel L. Robinson

  Those overalls! She had had them on last week when Mr. Fletcher suddenly appeared on the beach. The gloom left her as she thought of last week and she felt light and comfortable again. She and old Dinkle had been busily loading the dinghy when there he was, leaning against a rock.

  “Hullo,” he said, and “Hullo,” they both said.

  “So you do have some fun, don’t you?” He came up to the boat and handed Dinkle the oars. Thankful had introduced them as well as she could with old Dinkle shoving the boat. Mr. Fletcher took hold, too, and they got it to the water’s edge in no time.

  “Have a good haul,” he said and he managed to look wistful.

  Old Dinkle held the dinghy back with an oar. “Want to come, young feller?” Just as if he had been one of the boys. Robert, if Robert could be imagined there! And without waiting to answer, he had given the bow a push and leaped aboard. He had on old clothes, too, though they didn’t look like Dinkle’s.

  Dinkle asked him what his name was, though Thankful had already told him. Orin Fletcher. And if the old man didn’t call him Orin! Just as if he had been one of the boys. So easily that Thankful did it herself once. She turned scarlet now as she thought of it. He had started to cast off too soon and she had shouted from the wheel, “Hold her, Orin, hold her!” She was glad he hadn’t noticed it and was very careful after that. But curiously enough she found herself thinking of him as the old man called him, Orin with the first letter drawled a little. Perhaps it was because on an island you called people quite simply by their own names. She sighed. There she was back to the island again.

  But it had been easy to talk about Bright Island that day. Not while they were hauling, though that was fun too. He had been so quick in his motions that Dinkle said he was through before he had begun. And Thankful had to show him how to do so many things that she entirely forgot that he was usually the teacher. He seemed to forget it too, and they laughed a great deal over his mistakes.

  It was while they had their snack that they talked so much about Bright Island. Thankful was surprised when she remembered how much she had told him. Luckily he had a sandwich of his own, and a whole pocket full of chocolate bars. Old Dinkle had relished those! Thankful hardly got one for herself, and she didn’t see Orin—Mr. Fletcher—eat a single one.

  As Thankful lay there on the beach and recalled the fun they had had, it seemed surprisingly the best trip yet. If she had considered beforehand including someone who was so Latin-wise, she would have been sure of a spoiled day. But he really had added something which she couldn’t quite define. The day seemed saltier, with more flavor. Fuller of laughter, and quick gay talk. Not once his sardonic tongue.

  Thankful sprang to her feet and ran to help old man Dinkle slithering over the beach grass with his mended spray hood. “May need it before we get ’em hauled today,” he grunted, and Thankful nodded, wise to the November sea.

  Before he shoved off, the old man squinted up and down the shore. “Orin comin’?” he asked.

  Thankful had looked, too. “I guess not,” she said. “He might think he was pushing himself in.”

  “Good comp’ny.” Dinkle pulled short hard strokes to his powerboat. “Good choc’let.”

  Thankful reached in the pocket of her jeans. “I brought you some.”

  Dinkle’s eyes gleamed under bushy brows. “Might try a chaw when we get her off,” he said.

  The powerboat chugged smoothly out of the cove with Thankful at the wheel. She knew the location of each lobster pot now. But today instead of rebaiting the slatted cage and dropping it back again, Dinkle piled the pots neatly in the bow. As they putted briskly around the next point he cocked a withered eye toward the shore.

  “That fool sloop goin’ out today? Should ’a’ been hauled up two weeks ago.”

  Thankful didn’t want her happiness spoiled. This last day. They had passed her in a car, Robert and Selina. No bus when his boat had been ordered up the first of the month. Selina had hired the car because Robert was always broke, and it was one way to make him take her sailing. Thankful had heard all this gossip from the girls, but she didn’t want to think about it now. Her thoughts must leave them alone, and the clean white sloop, and their lunch together on an island. If she could but set foot on an island again, a wild sweet-smelling island! She swung the wheel and slid up to a bobbing buoy. It was enough to be out with the gulls this morning. They swirled and shrieked after the discarded bait. She thought of Limpy, strong and free. And Dave! She missed Dave suddenly, and then forgot him. Robert’s brown hair smooth and close to his head, Robert’s quick grace, oh, she wished that Robert would keep out of her thoughts! She wanted all of them for this last day on the water. Where was her pride to let them wander away to those young people who had no thought of her? The sloop fell behind the wooded point and she whistled urgently to her sad heart.

  She and Dinkle had a companionable snack none the less appetizing from the smell of dead herring which hung over the boat. Not even a crust for the screaming gulls who followed to the last haul. Some pots must be left for another trip but now there was work enough to stow these into the shed above the tide line. Back and forth they trudged from the beached boat, the old man strong and gnarled, the girl young and straight in her faded jeans. One on each side until the last pot was piled away for the winter.

  Out at the mooring old Dinkle fastened down the spray hood. “Blow before night,” he said, and they jogged their heads together at the piled ranks of wind clouds in the north. “Spell o’ weather on the way. Hope that fool boy’ll haul up his sloop now.”

  Robert back again in her thoughts when she just cleared him away. He must have come in long ago. It was late. Stacking the pots had taken so long. She must run. It was good-bye then. And “Come a good day in March, we’ll get her off again.” March. Months away. So long to wait! And then she remembered that when March came she would be only two months from Bright Island and she ran with swift glad steps as if toward that time. The old man plodded through the pasture without looking ahead or behind.

  At the turn of the road where the coastline stretched to either side, Thankful paused and looked. Looked again, and then again to be sure. Robert’s boat was not at its mooring. Then she remembered with a quick lift of her breath that he might have sailed it down to the yard where it was to be hauled up for the winter. Of course, she thought. Of course he did. He wouldn’t want them to know up at school that his boat was still out. Though she knew how little he cared in his gay insubordination, and how gentle with him the authorities were. “Spoiled, he is,” she said, and then she saw the car still braked in the beach grass. Robert and Selina becalmed out there somewhere were waiting for those black rolling clouds to bring them wind. And they little knew how much, she thought grimly.

  It was curious how much she knew of their plans in spite of the indifference she had worked so hard to achieve. A sail to Hogback, a swim, a driftwood fire, steak, marshmallows—a stolen picnic which no one would permit; and stolen, all the better. But what if this escapade ended other than they planned? Thankful could already see the whitecaps edging the outer bars. A November nor’wester was too strong medicine for that little boat. She was built for summer seas.

  A slap of wind, chilled as if from the bottom of the sea, struck her sharply. She shivered down into her sweater though not from cold. Best wait around a few minutes, she thought. They’ll be right in now the breeze has come up. She hated to get back to school late. Miss Haynes let her have these Saturdays knowing her need, and that she would be back on time. Thankful could not bear to worry her. But, she thought, swallowing her pride, I’ll ride up in their car and save time. I must be sure about them.

  The wind clouds swept low now and helped to darken the brief November day. Thankful watched the water ruffle and break into gray fragments under them. Not too squally, she thought, they could weather this. Hope they’ve plenty of warm clothes. But she had seen Selina dress in her smart linen slacks and shirt, and the coat she wore to cover them
was slung across the car seat.

  Why didn’t they hurry? Didn’t they know—know what, that the day was darkening, that the wind from those overhanging clouds could break them, that she was waiting, oh, what could she do if that small boat did not sail around the point soon!

  Across the road the ground rose in a brief knoll which might overlook the wooded point. Thankful pulled herself up through wild rose brambles which tore at her, into alder brush, and out on the flat granite top. There it was! Flitting over the dark water toward her like a small pale moth. The relief was so sharp that it hurt. She was consumed with anger toward that pair for the anguish they had caused her. Let them make their mooring as they could! She would run for it now and reach the campus as soon as they did.

  The sloop went about, tacking close into the wind. Thankful stopped short at the edge of the rocky summit. “The fool! The fool!” she cried. “Why don’t you reef your sail!” Her voice blew back into her throat. All sail on to make time, and no thought about consequences. She knew, she knew what Robert would do. She could see his dark figure bent over the wheel, and a crouched huddle of white which spelled Selina. Were they frightened? Reckless, reckless lad to pay no heed to that wild wind! It blew her hair into her eyes and she pushed the pale mop back and peered distractedly under her hands.

  The sail from her knoll looked almost flat on the water. Selina, backed against the rail, was braced erect now. The sloop shoved itself nose deep through choppy waves rushing crazily at each other. Its keel was bare. “The good little boat! The good little boat!” Thankful cried to it watching it wallow. “You can make it! Oh, if he’d only reefed her! Robert! Robert!” she screamed. “Robert! Head her up! Head her up!” and then she was running, running blindly, purposefully, through brush and brambles. The sloop had capsized.

  Her feet took no caution that she knew, but they bore her sure and swift as wings. Down to the road, up the shore, to the dinghy pulled high from the tide. Dragging, tugging at the heavy stern, until waves crashed over its edge. Her breath stopped in her throat now, and she panted like a dog. Into the water beside the boat until it cleared the chop, and then over the side, and pull, pull, pull. Almost as much water inside as out. But nothing could sink that dory. Oh, could those two hold on until she got there! Could she hurry any faster! If she could only breathe!

  She leaped aboard the powerboat, and flung the dory’s loop over the mooring pole. Here, here in the diddy box he kept the key. Dave had always rolled up the wheel. She thought of Dave now. She knew how, but she had no breath. And if it would not catch! Oh, she couldn’t think of that—she reached down and gave it a mighty roll.

  It caught! And she flung herself against the tiller. Broadside she must run, no easing her off. Robert and Selina struggling in that icy water, clutching at a slippery keel—oh, hold on! Hold on! I’m coming. If she could ever get beyond the point where she could see if—where she could see if—she pushed back what she might have to see. Her breath was easier now, and she felt every elastic muscle stretch and pull at the boat’s speed. It was so slow! When the motor coughed once she felt sick and faint.

  She took a chance at rocks and cut close to the point. Around it, leaning out to prick into the space ahead. In the gloom, nothing. Nothing but crazy fighting waves. Thankful moaned, pushing hopelessly on. Then her terror found voice and she heard herself above the wind screaming their names. “Where are you! Where are you! I’m coming!” If the wind would be quiet to let her hear.

  She was almost on them when she saw them, Selina lurched over the flattened rudder, Robert hanging to the bowsprit. Water dashing over them and the flat white sail. Instantly Thankful felt her wild pulses quiet. They were here, and she could get them. Calm and sure, she slid at low speed as near as she dared.

  “Catch!” She hurled one of the ropes old Dinkle had used to tie his lobster pots together. It curled over the half-sunk bowsprit and into Robert’s numb fingers. He made a clumsy hitch and cried hoarsely, “Hurry!”

  Her arms, her heart, pulled her toward him first. Robert. He could so easily slip now! His poor stiff hands—but Selina was slipping. A limp, huddled heap. Thankful dragged at her rope, drifted closer, grabbed at the white slacks, and Selina had tumbled into the bottom of the powerboat. Thankful could hear her gasping, “Oh, I’m so thankful, thankful, thankful,” and thought she was calling her. But she had no more heed for Selina.

  Robert tried valiantly to help her, but she thought that she had lost him twice. Somehow he caught the rope each time he fell, but the waves dashed over his white drowned face and Thankful thought he must let go. She talked, talked, talked to him. Not that he could hear her words. But her steadying voice, her set determined face swaying above him, her strong young arms, finally they got him aboard. He rolled down beside the engine and was very sick. She thought, perhaps he will mind this most of all, and looked sharp for a chance to free their mooring to the wreck.

  She was still enough of a sailor to feel that she cut away something alive. But there was no more that she could do for the sloop. It would wash ashore, and with luck it would make the sheltered cove. They would come down tomorrow and retrieve it. Thankful swung out in an arc until, the wind behind her, she leaped with the waves toward the mooring where the dinghy bumped.

  Bitten to the skin by the icy spray, the cold wind pouring over her wet body, Thankful still was conscious only of a warm core that could not be reached. Down there, cowering close to the engine box in the lee of the gale, were two live people. Wretched, half frozen, water streaming from them, Selina sobbing and Robert ghastly with shut eyes, yet there! Alive and—she held the dinghy with one hand and pushed them into it with the other—almost ashore.

  No one could help her pull the dory back above high water except the tide which was at the full. I’ll give it an extra hist tomorrow, she promised herself. She measured the task ahead of her. How to get this numb stumbling pair as far as the car. They waited for her to decide, motionless where she had dragged them from the dinghy. She could not manage both of them at once.

  “Robert, you come with me and we’ll drive back for Selina.” Oh, if she only could drive that car! Would Robert? It would take so long for her to run back to the school for help. They would freeze down here waiting. “Robert!” She spoke more sharply. “Come along with me. Exercise will warm you best.”

  He stood dripping and looked at her vaguely. Her heart was wrung. “Come on.” She seized his arm and propelled him toward the road. Selina moaned, “Don’t leave me,” but no one noticed her. His feet slipped back over the loose pebbles and she could see his knees begin to fold. She thrust a strong tired arm around him and hoisted him over the bank to the road. How slight and fine he felt!

  “Now faster, just a little jog trot, see like this,” she urged and prodded until she could feel his muscles under her arm come to life. She thought there had never been a piece of road so long. Then she could see the car settled down into the gloom of the dark beach grass.

  “Can’t drive it,” Robert muttered. The car smelled stuffy and warm. Robert folded his arms over the wheel and rested his wet dark head on them. Thankful could have cried.

  “That’s perfect blethers!” Her mother always broke into Scotch when she scolded. “I cannot abide such softness. Pick up your head off that wheel.”

  Robert raised startled eyes, and she met them with her dark-browed frown. “Now get on with you.” She was relentless in her need. “We’ll not leave Selina to chill on the beach. You can go that far, and if need be I’ll run it the rest.” She watched his shaking hands start the car, and kept a hand on the wheel as it swerved down the road. “It’s not unlike enough to a boat to bother,” she said. “You can leave the steering to me. Though I don’t know as I can bring her around.”

  The turn was a problem and the car sheered crazily about the road before it faced home. But Selina was aboard and Robert was still at the wheel. At the gate he pushed Thankful’s hand from the wheel. “I’ll take it in,” he said shortly.
She thought, he is remembering now the hard words I said to him. Oh, Robert! But because his hand was steady she let him go.

  There could be nothing secret about this return. Through the lighted windows of the dining room their empty places proclaimed them. Thankful saw the great roast, and hunger brought her first weakness. She trembled as she watched the maid bear it away for the dessert. Suddenly she felt the sorrows of the world bear down upon her, and she wept. This last straw had broken her.

  Robert was ready to dominate again. She heard his voice running on to Miss Haynes. But she did not care what he said. The lost roast stood for a spar which would have saved her from drowning. She crept up to her room and dropped her wet clothes on the floor while Edie helped Selina into bed.

  Edie left them and went out. Thankful crawled shivering under the blankets. The wind and the fear and her hunger had beaten her down. She seemed hollowed into the bed, flat and lifeless. Her hair dried in wisps on the pillow, her lashes were feather dark. She felt that nothing could rouse her again.

  Edie held the door back with her foot and pushed her way in. The curling smell of hot roast beef woke Thankful’s tired senses. Edie set the tray down between the beds. “Want I should feed you?” she asked. Selina moaned assent. Thankful sat up briskly. She took the loaded plate from Edie and silently set to work. Through the roast and vegetables while Selina fussed over a glass of hot milk. But before the last spoonful of ice cream was reached, she slid back on the pillows with the soft breathing of untroubled sleep.

  PART III

  Bright Island Now and Then

  Bright Island Thanksgiving

  Thankful was puzzled by Selina. Her pride made her wary of the girl’s advances. She mustn’t feel that she has to be nice to me, Thankful thought, just because I happened to haul her out of the water that day. Anybody would have. And I’m no different now than I was before.

  But Selina persisted. She seemed softened and humbled. She invited Thankful to do this and that, and brought her little gifts of sweets which she offered tentatively as if she feared refusal. Thankful ate the candy, but withheld her affection. In these months she had built up a resistance against Selina which was not easily brought low. It had helped her to stand the daily hurts and it still held her unresponsive behind its protection. Selina met with unexpected rebuff.