The mood changed abruptly when I pulled Ainslee up at the pub’s handy hitching post.
Madame Chatillon leaned forward to address me. “I must speak to the postmistress. This, the post office station in Ingonish, or perhaps the provincial post, has mislaid letters. It is most serious. Most serious.”
I had a feeling that in Paris, such failures were never tolerated. I waited for her to tell me so, but she sat, waiting for some sort of answer.
“Er. Did you want me to show you the way to the post office?”
“Thank you.”
I caught our reflections in the high glass windows of the Imperial Drug Company’s store. She stalked determinedly passed as I, like a little church mouse, scurried in her wake. Oh, it took no effort to imagine Madame Chatillon shrieking in her peculiar accent at the poor postmistress.
I did not want to be seen with her. As we arrived at the front door I carried straight on. “Errand,” I sang out, “Be right back.” I ducked off around the corner onto the narrow dirt way overlooking the town wharf and hid (yes, shamelessly hid) behind boxes lined up for shipment. Scraps of fog still hung about the waterfront, helping me hide. I tried to stand there casually, while keeping an eye out for when she might pop out of the post’s building.
The back door of the fisherman’s shed slammed shut and I scooted around the boxes to stay out of sight.
“Surprised you haven’t gone off Sydney to work the winter.” A gruff old fisherman stomped by, calling to someone out on the wharf.
“Enough work here,” responded a voice I knew. It was Daro himself, down on the dock. He must have come straight down to work after I’d departed. I peeked around the piled boxes.
He stood barely meters away! I heard the thump of boxes as the men set about loading or unloading, and here I hid! Great stars and garters! I practically shrank down into a ball at the thought of being found there. How stupidly embarrassing.
I peeked very carefully around the side. Daro, poised down on the floating dock, tossed a box easily over to a man on the deck of a boat.
An older man, a grizzled graybeard, stood on the dock waving a newspaper. “Trenches. They are fighting from trenches in the dirt. Practically living down in these holes in the ground.”
A dockworker shook his head at the old fellow. “Europe sounds like hell.”
How did I ever land myself in such a ridiculous position? I didn’t mean to overhear but didn’t want to dart away quite yet, either. Thank heaven I’d changed into a dark everyday overcoat that helped me blend! My bright earlier colors would have been noticed—what with my frills and froth fluffily dancing around the edges of the stacked boxes.
Two younger fellows caught boxes from Daro and stacked them. The pair had to step lively to keep up with him. I felt lucky kept his attention entirely focused on loading the boat.
“Shooting from the air, besides. Using aero planes now. There’s talk about some German pilots. What they call these fighting aces.” The man shook his head again.
The older man shrugged heavily. “Never heard of such a thing.”
One of the youngsters called out, “Is there ought about the British infantry and any of our boys’ regiments?”
“It’ll be the boats, the trans-Atlantic freighters decides it all,” growled the older dockworker. “If we can’t get munitions through, it won’t matter who’s standing on what line. It’ll come down to which side controls the shipping lanes. Anyone work on the wharfs’ud know that.” He bent and casually flipped a box at Daro. “Not that you’d know a thing about the sea. You’d be telling’em all about mines or how steel makes all the difference.”
“All far from here,” the younger fellow interceded. “No sense our arguing.”
“We’re told to keep an eye out. Heard St. John’s fellas have spotted ships, away to the east. Paper said there’d be refugees too.”
“We’ve heard it all before, Donnall. Ships, what kind of ships?”
“The coast guard should-a been on watch long since,” Donnall replied. “Battleships might head this way. Think of all our ships carrying munitions to Britain. Those are bound to attract enemy attention.”
I wondered at that these fellows’ interest. We were so far from it all. At home, the local Ladies Aid Society of Halifax organized various drives, from ‘warm socks for soldiers,’ to promoting soirees and social events, like art gallery exhibits to help fund Red Cross efforts. It sounded all very well. Older ladies, sitting home anyway, now set to knitting with a purpose. Gentlemen at parties shouted loudly against conscription of our boys into the service (or for, depending.) I suspected their arguments made as little difference as the benefit dances.
Oh, I suppose someone made good use of the socks, somewhere. Still, events were always ‘over there.’ Why, all summer long I regularly served tins of imported caviar to people who were reading newspapers with headlines about food and fuel in short supply, and this being Britain’s hour of need.
“Another message from our Prime Minister.” The eldest fisherman on the shook out the paper and held it so the other men could see. “Warnings about railways, harbors, and ports now.”
“Watching all methods of transport,” Don grunted.
Daro nodded. “They are worried about German sympathizers in this country, if they are watching bridges and such.”
It was common knowledge that Canada’s factories churned out artillery ammunition, packed it onto railways, and sent it overland to every major port. Massive sea freighters, now with armed escort, brought the ammunition overseas.
Daro crouched lower on his stack of boxes and said, “Heard of reports of warships firing on fishing vessels as well as ammunitions freighters.”
“Overseas,” the young fellow said. “Not in our waters. All far from here.”
“Heard some funny sightings up around Saint Paul Island,” Don said.
Another man made shushing motions. “Not the sort of thing we want to be talking about on the docks. We don’t know everyone here well, do we?” He looked at Daro.
At Daro? I squinted between the boxes, but my Daro did not react. He casually kept chucking boxes.
“I guess I know everyone here as well as I know anyone.” Donnall grinned at Daro. “At least I can identify a fellow I went to school with, even if he worked in Sydney for a few years!”
The older man growled, “been away,” and turned to spit into the sea.
Daro looked grim. “Can’t say as I wasn’t.”
“All them kind-a problems are in Europe,” the youngster put in.
“For now,” the box stacker growled. “Don’t help those who have been sent over there.”
“Trust in Our Father,” one among them murmured. Daro bowed his head. Several quietly spoke names, probably of relatives, “Bless our Ben, keep Nicky, Old George’s boy,” or “Bring that fool Kyle back to us, I’ve not laughed since he went…” and other remembrances.
I had to pull back tears at their simple prayer. Loads of folk hereabouts, especially the fishing families, had kin on the other side of the strait. The Newfoundland boys were a loss that must have struck them all in the heart.
“You’ve heard from your young brother, have you now, Michelson?”
I held my breath. His brother was over there?
All this talk of war, of battles and strategies; How easy it was to forget we were talking about ordinary folks, young men from down the street or two towns over, someone’s cousin, brother, or son.
“Not for weeks.” Daro’s gravelly voice sounded lower than ever.
His brother. I shrank back, feeling such an intruder. A figure loomed beside me, oh my stars, Madame Chatillon! Her lace and ribbons floated out around her like a cloud. Horrors, she’d start complaining and all the men would hear her and see me hiding there!
The French lady quite surprised me. She took in the scene at a glance and hastily shrank low, bringing a finger to her lips. Together, we tiptoed away, leaving the men to their conversation.
&
nbsp; The first turn down the main road took us out of view of the men and right to the most picturesque view imaginable. The half-moon bay might have been a painting. The turn of the tide brought tiny, foaming waves around a beached dory and retreating, sweeping the beach clean.
Scraps of light shone through to glitter on the fog.
Madame placed her hand gently on my arm. “You are tres sensitive Mademoiselle Elizabeth, to show such discretion.”
Amusingly, I happened to be thinking exactly the same thing about her.
“The men speak sadly of those far from home, no?” She gazed to the east. “It is sad. A sad time.”
I hadn’t thought of Madame’s feeling at all. Suddenly, I felt quite heartless. “I’m sorry Madame. Of course, you are far from home, too.”
She waved her elegantly long hands at the charming little bay in front of us. “When I see how the light glitters on each wave, I, too, think of home. I think of Monsieur Monet and how he captured light. I can hardly describe to those who have not the experience, of the play of light and shade he created, making the most ordinary scene aerial, spiritual.” She waved her hands as if capturing the bay in a frame. “All my family loved d’art. It was our world. So much gone now, stolen from galleries and museums.”
“You must miss home.”
“Home, the family, the culture. From when I was very young, we attended Le Académie exhibitions.” She brought her hand to her throat like an actress. “I loved it so.” Madame Chatillon swept up her long, old-fashioned draped skirts off to one side and there, against the light and dark backdrop of the still-foggy sea, I could imagine her, as she must have appeared once: a pretty young debutant in a world of elegance and beauty, dressed to the height of fashion.
She must be very nearly the same age as Mrs. Trumbull, too. Funny how I could see them both as they must have been.
“I stood at the unveiling of Impression, soleil levant et la Salon de Paris.” She lifted both hands as if to embrace a huge painting on a wall. “Monsieur Monet was magnifique, a romantic figure for my family and all our circle. My father cleverly acquired several small, early landscapes by Monet. Our treasures.” She stood there, frozen, staring out to sea, and suddenly her words became a torrent. “No, no my family is my treasure. Where are they? I watch every day, Elizabeth, the newspapers, and for letters. Ships have arrived, but not my grandson, not our treasures. They were preparing to book passage. There are few passenger ships so it must be one due in just days. These last few weeks I have heard no word at all!”
Her words tugged at my heart. Her grandson!
“Madame Chatillon,” I stuttered, “I am so sorry.”
“No, no, I do not ask for sorry, but what to do. Who do I ask? How do I find them?” She clutched her hands together and struggled to keep back tears. “The devils have not sunk their ship!”
“You’ve written, I take it?”
“Yes, to Marie, and also my eldest sister who remained in Giverny, though I begged her to come to safety.”
“Still no word?”
“All summer I received letters, Marie kept careful check on opportunities to book passage on ships leaving port. Then all at once, nothing. The post mistress says all letters are delivered.”
“Perhaps your family is on the way?”
“My sister would still be there. She did not plan to travel.” Madame stared out to sea exactly as I had seen her stand and stare out our front room windows, these last weeks. “My son’s wife will bring everything. All our treasures. We were careful to guard ours, where so many invested in works still in galleries when the invasion came. I have no money left Elizabeth. At the end of the summer, I had to tell Emmaline Brookeson that I awaited a shipment from home, and would settle my bill once it arrived. The Brookesons have been very good to wait.”
Pale and elegant and desperate, she stood there, asking my advice and all I could suggest was…was… “Wait now. Didn’t I see a letter for you in the tray two days ago?”
She nodded. “My son. He is in the service. He thinks the family left to board a ship in Calais, but word should have come ahead. I should have seen names in passenger lists.”
“We’ve not received every newspaper,” I tried to sound reassuring, but suddenly, I remembered burnt newspapers in the smoking room fireplace and one of Madame’s letters in the gentlemen’s room mail tray.
I had an uncomfortable thought. “You let the Brookeson’s know you were expecting money?”
“Yes, yes. I told Emmaline Brookeson. There are perhaps three of the grand old steamships going back and forth, bringing families and all their worldly goods to safety. They are not like the small ships, rushing willy-nilly, but proper big ships, with passenger lists, with holds large enough for goods and furnishings. They are secretive about their schedules for safety, but my sister watches and shares this with me.”
A tiny fishing vessel eased into the bay before us. A trick of the light sent its shadow out onto the scraps of fog, beyond the harbor. The shadow loomed as if a huge ship bore down on our tiny harbor. I drew back and nearly gasped.
A cloud shifted, the Sun bore through full strength, and the shadow disappeared. It was quite an ordinary seaside scene again.
Madame took no notice. “I begged my son’s wife, Marie, to book passage long ago. She tarried all summer, preparing, packing. Then suddenly, no word. No word from Giverny. My sister had told me every time she heard of a ship leaving port. Now, no word, these many weeks. I have not heard if the Folkestone has again departed from Calais.” Her breath caught, almost on a sob, but she drew herself up and pressed her lips firmly together. “The waiting has been difficult.”
I stood side-by-side with the French lady, as rays from the sun cast away the scraps of fog in the crystal clear, picture-perfect day and wondered at the play of light upon the water. Something seemed far from right; far, far from right.
Chapter Nine
Promising Fog
In the following days, things might have sunk back to ordinary, but somehow they missed the mark. Day after day, I found myself up early, watching the weather and reminding myself how Daro had promised to keep an eye on Oceanside.
One foggy gray not-quite-dawn, I spotted his familiar shape tying up at our dock. He stood stock still, staring east. I stole out the kitchen door and hustled along in near-darkness though I had no reason to rush out there or to speak to him. No good reason.
“Daro,” I called from the flagstone walk.
He half-turned to me and smiled. “I was waiting for the Sun and here I find you instead.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Will the Sun be on time this morning, sir?”
“And I with the earth am moving into the light…” he quoted softly, as if he commanded the great cloud of fog to sink soggily away from us.
“I’m afraid we won’t see the sunrise this morning.” I felt like dancing. The weather didn’t matter at all. My sunshine stood right in front of me.
“Even in the darkness below the Earth, the Earth brings our face to light.” He motioned to the east. “Can’t you feel it? My heart lifts as I feel our sky lighten, whether or not the light shines through.”
Why no easy words would come to me as I stood by him, I could never tell. I felt the world lightening and my heart lifting more and more. I might have simply agreed, noted how the fog began to shimmer now and grow pale, but I could not find words to describe how it felt. I might as well be walking in a dream, for I floated lighter than the fog. I took his arm in silence and we stood, looking east.
He put his free hand over mine. “Your heart lifts, as well?”
I nodded, more and more lost in this foggy dream-world.
He turned us slightly southward. “In fog like this, I wait for the opening in the clouds to see the first of the rays. At such times, the light creates affects all unexpected. There are strange lights the fishermen all know about because they are up before the dawn to see such things: Glories, and sky halos, Sun dogs, and the like. It’
s the magic of light.”
I thought of Madame’s recollection of artworks as she looked out over the colorful sea. Two such different people inspired by the same sort of vision made me wonder at, as he said, ‘the magic of light.’
South of us, the fog took on a scrappy look as it thinned over harbor. “Wait, now,” Daro murmured
I might have stood beside him forever, as if we could be a couple and be utterly free of entanglements. I might be free from family expectation and follow him into the life of a wanderer. Wanderer. An emptiness loomed.
I stood in a fearful place suddenly, feeling not freedom but emptiness. I claimed I didn’t want the well-planned life of a married woman, with family, duties, and everyday much like the next, yet to up-anchor, to throw cares into the wind and have no plan at all took me from quiet bay to dangerous seas indeed.
I must have clung to him as I contemplated those dangerous waters of our future.
He wrapped one arm around me. “Fear no storms today. The Sun is nearly here. I guessed it would clear, as soon as I saw you. There’s a bluish halo today. It followed you down the path.”
‘He always knows the weather,’ Cook had said, and ‘Spent his young life in darkness.’
I imagined the mine, all darkness and shadows, and the only light was what each of the men carried for themselves.
“Those who’ve spent a long time in darkness know about light.” I had no idea where my words came from. I might have quoted some long-ago line, I’d read, but they were true words for him and I could tell he thought so.
His eyes lifted as if he could see beyond the clouds. “Winters,” he said at last, “Those short days. I’d be walking to work, and I’d suddenly feel the sun’s approach. I’d hang back, hang back one more second, two, just to see the first rays come over the horizon. Later, when we finished our work day, it would already be dark when we came to the surface.”
“Now you can sense the Sun even if she’s hidden by clouds.” My words lacked his pure poetic phrasing.
He placed his hand at my waist as naturally as if we had stepped together to dance. I placed my palm in his. The rhythm of waves and the cries of gulls wove together and we swept around in a buoyant little circle, in a waltz all our own.
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