That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  They stood, shook their skirts down and buttoned their coats, but little repair was done on hair, and their mother neither badgered nor reminded them again. When the first blast of the steam whistle shuddered the floorboards, they looked as unkempt as if they had never touched combs or irons.

  The knock of the engines slowed and they braced their feet wide.

  ‘‘Make sure you’ve got everything,’’ Roberta said, ‘‘especially your umbrellas, and let’s go forward.’’ They gathered up their belongings and moved to the part of the lounge giving onto a companionway that emptied onto the first-floor deck. Here the windows were more generous and other passengers already crowded, peering out, waiting to disembark. The girls stretched their necks to see above the heads in front of them.

  ‘‘That’s the Baptist church tower, see? And the smokestack from the mill. Remember I told you how my mother wanted me to work there? Do you see it?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Mother, we see.’’ Becky replied for all three of them.

  ‘‘I wonder if the children will be with Grace and Elfred.’’

  ‘‘How old are they again?’’ Lydia asked.

  ‘‘Very nearly the same as the three of you. Marcelyn is sixteen, Trudy’s thirteen and Corinda, I believe, is ten.’’

  ‘‘I hope they’re not as weird as their names, and I hope they’re not all stuck-up and holier-than-thou just because they’ve lived here all their lives and we’ve never been here before.’’ In general, Lydia was always the negative one.

  Rebecca played peacemaker, as usual. ‘‘For all we know, they think our names are weird. Besides, I think their names are dramatic.’’

  ‘‘You think everything is dramatic.’’

  ‘‘Everything but you. You’re just a little naysayer.’’

  ‘‘Girls,’’ Roberta said, and they quieted down and waited among the other bedraggled passengers, whose eyes showed signs of little sleep and whose teeth were in need of brushing. A man behind them proved it by yawning hugely, tainting the air with garlic.

  Susan pinched her nose and caught Rebecca’s eye. ‘‘I think the buttons just rotted off the back of my dress,’’ she murmured.

  Rebecca giggled and received a strong nudge in the back.

  ‘‘Ow! Motherrr!’’

  ‘‘Mind your manners, both of you,’’ Roberta warned in an undertone, though the corners of her mouth were twitching.

  ‘‘He should mind his,’’ Rebecca whispered over her shoulder.

  ‘‘Yes, he should,’’ Roberta agreed. ‘‘Either that or we should all turn around and yawn on him . . . and there are four of us.’’

  Roberta, Rebecca, and Susan began to snicker, and the amusement from one fed the others, drawing the attention of nearby passengers until Lydia looked up and tugged her mother’s hand. ‘‘What are you three laughing at?’’

  Roberta leaned down and whispered, ‘‘I’ll tell you later, honey-bun. Be on your best behavior now for Aunt Grace and Uncle Elfred.’’

  ‘‘Mother, if you tell me that one more time I’m going to stow away and go back to Boston. And must you call me honey-bun, like I’m some mere infant in pinafores? I’m ten years old, you know.’’

  Roberta smiled and affectionately rested the folded side of a fist on the part in Lydia’s messy hair, then turned her attention to the cluster of people on the wharf that was just sliding into view.

  She had ambivalent feelings about returning here, but the girls needed stability, and a little shot of family wouldn’t hurt either. They had never known their grandmother, aunt, uncle or cousins, and it was high time they did. Let my family be tolerant, she thought. If they’ll just be tolerant, that’s all I ask. I’ll provide for my girls and see that they make it to adulthood with a home and love and encouragement, but when I can’t be there for them, I’ll need my family to be.

  The boat whistle blasted again and the Belfast hove against the wharf. The vibrations ascended from the floorboards through the soles of Roberta’s shoes to the region around her heart, warning that for better or worse, after eighteen years, she was home again.

  The four Jewetts descended the corrugated gangway huddled beneath two black umbrellas, and the sides of their skirts got wet before they were halfway down. A well-dressed man, hunched beneath his own black umbrella, separated from the crowd on the wharf and hurried forward, anchoring a bowler on his head with one hand while his coattails flapped.

  ‘‘Birdy?’’ he called above the wind.

  ‘‘Elfred?’’ she called back. ‘‘Is that you?’’

  ‘‘It’s me all right. And these must be your girls.’’ He came close enough that their umbrellas bumped and she could see he was the man she remembered, though he now sported a moustache.

  ‘‘Yes, these three. Girls, this is your uncle Elfred.’’

  ‘‘Come inside. Grace is waiting where it’s drier.’’

  He herded them along to the steamship office, a lowslung weather-beaten structure with sodden benches lining its outside walls and new electric lighting sending a glow through the windows. Inside, a heavyset woman wearing a high, fruit-trimmed hat opened her arms and rushed forward.

  ‘‘Birdy, oh, Birdy, you’re really here.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Gracie, it’s so good to see you!’’

  They hugged hard, blocking the doorway and the other passengers streaming around them.

  ‘‘Our little Birdy has flown home at last.’’

  ‘‘Heavens, I haven’t been called that for a while.’’ During the first few years of her marriage Roberta had returned home occasionally, always without her husband. But in the last ten years, as his philandering had escalated, she had stayed away, unwilling to face questions.

  The embrace ended and the two women stood back to take stock of each other. Grace was only a shade over five feet tall, a firmly packed matron shaped like a cracker barrel, with a pudgy face bearing a large, unsightly mole on the right side of her upper lip. Her hair was tidily dressed and her clothing expensive. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, there were tears in her blue eyes.

  By contrast, Roberta’s gray-blue eyes were dry and held, perhaps, a touch of reserve. She was a head taller than her older sister. Her clothes were cheap and wrinkled. She flouted convention by not wearing a hat, and her thick mahogany hair—coiled up inexpertly the previous afternoon, well before they had boarded the steamboat—had not been touched since. It drifted from its rat, which showed in places, and straggled along her neck without apologies from her. There were age lines sprouting at the corners of her eyes and a bit of girth developing at her midsection. Everything about her said, I’m heading for forty and not ashamed to show it, and here are my three reasons why.

  ‘‘Come on, Gracie, meet my girls.’’ The pride in her voice was unmistakable. ‘‘Girls, introduce yourselves.’’

  They did so with impressive elocution and bearing, as if they had no idea they looked like a trio of ragamuffins. During the introductions, Grace hugged them all and Elfred removed his hat, bending over each of their hands in turn. He spoke their names and verified their ages, then finally turned to their mother to make up for the abrupt greeting outside in the rain.

  ‘‘Well, Birdy, hello . . . gracious, how you’ve changed.’’

  ‘‘Haven’t we all, Elfred.’’

  He was nattily dressed, his clothing brushed and his cheeks cleanly shaven above a gorgeous silvering moustache that tilted up at the corners like a smile. The rain released the scent of bay rum from his skin; it wreathed the air above his beautifully barbered head like perfume above a purple petunia patch. He had grown stocky and developed some silver at the temples, too, but at middle age—forty or so—it became him. He seemed to know it though, which spoiled the whole effect. His smile released the power of a surprising pair of dimples and long-lashed brown eyes that were true heartbreakers. Some sixth sense warned Roberta that he used them for that purpose whenever it suited him, and she suffered his gloved hand on her shoulder for a moment longer
than it needed to be there.

  ‘‘Welcome back to Camden,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Thank you. Is the house ready?’’ Elfred sold real estate and had arranged the purchase of her house.

  ‘‘Now, Roberta, ‘ready’ is a relative word. I warned you, it needs work.’’

  ‘‘Work I’m used to, plus I have three willing helpers. When can we see it?’’

  ‘‘As soon as you’d like, but Grace was hoping you’d stop by our house first for breakfast. Unless, of course, you ate on the boat.’’

  ‘‘What we ate on the boat was cheese sandwiches last night about six o’clock. We’re all ravenous.’’

  Grace grew radiant. ‘‘Then you’ll come! Wonderful! We’ve given the children permission to be late for school so they could meet your girls. By now they’re dressed and waiting. Elfred, what about Roberta’s trunks? Will you speak to the station agent about them? I imagine she’ll want—’’

  ‘‘I’ll speak to the station agent myself,’’ Roberta interrupted.

  ‘‘Oh . . . well . . . yes, of course,’’ Grace said haltingly, her eyes flitting to her husband as if expecting to be told whose side to take. ‘‘Of course, yes, I imagine you will. Then shall we—’’

  ‘‘Mornin’, Elfred, Mrs. Spear,’’ a man said as he brushed around them on his way inside. He was dressed in dripping brown oilskins, Wellington boots and a plaid wool newsboy’s cap canted low over his left ear. His face was windburned, his brown hair shaggy beneath the cap. He looked to be about Elfred’s age.

  ‘‘Hey, Gabriel, not so fast there,’’ Elfred called. ‘‘Come and meet Grace’s sister, Roberta, just in from Boston with her three daughters. You might even remember her. She went to school here, but her name is Jewett now. Birdy, maybe you remember Gabriel Farley?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. How do you do, Mr. Farley.’’

  He touched his cap. ‘‘Mrs. Jewett,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re moving back to stay, I hear.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am,’’ she replied, surprised that he knew.

  ‘‘Into the Breckenridge house,’’ Elfred put in.

  ‘‘The Breckenridge house!’’ Farley cocked an eyebrow the color of old rope. It was very untamed, and made him look grumpy when he scowled. ‘‘Does she know what she’s getting into?’’

  ‘‘Don’t scare her, Gabe. She hasn’t seen it yet.’’

  Farley leaned an inch closer to Roberta and murmured as if in greatest confidence, ‘‘You’ve got to watch this fellow.’’ Without elaborating, he tossed a teasing grin at Elfred and bade them farewell. ‘‘Well, good luck and nice to meet you. Got some supplies to get off the boat, so I’d better see the agent. Ladies,’’ he said, touching his cap one last time.

  When he had moved on, Roberta accosted her brother-in-law. ‘‘All right, Elfred, just exactly what are you getting me into?’’

  ‘‘The best house I could manage with property as scarce as hens’ teeth these days. Since the trolley line came in and with wool production up because of the war, the town is booming. Now, are you sure you don’t want me to speak to the station agent about your trunks?’’

  ‘‘Quite sure. I spent eighteen years with a negligent husband who was rarely around and I have no intention of starting to rely on a man at this late date. All I need is the street address.’’

  ‘‘Just tell him it’s the old Breckenridge place. He knows it’s on Alden Street.’’

  When she turned away to make the arrangements, Grace’s eyes swung to Elfred with an expression that said quite clearly, You see? I told you what she was like!

  When the trunk claims were stamped and a cartage dray hired to deliver her freight to the house on Alden Street, the entire troop repaired to Elfred and Grace’s to have breakfast.

  Much to the amazement of the Jewetts, Elfred boarded them into a shiny black touring car.

  ‘‘This is really yours?’’ Becky exclaimed, awestruck.

  Elfred laughed. ‘‘That it is.’’

  ‘‘Gosh! I’ve never been in one before.’’

  Neither had Roberta, but she immediately preferred it to a jolting, smelly horse and carriage.

  Elfred drove them to a lovely three-story Queen Anne on Elm Street. It was apparent that Elfred did well selling real estate. Elm was obviously the thoroughfare to live on in Camden, with grand houses set far back behind broad green yards. Elfred and Grace’s house was stately and large, painted a deep wine color with four different colors of trim on its fish scales and gingerbread. Inside, it was decked out with a plethora of polished wood, leaded glass and elaborate wallpaper. The furnishings were rich and formally arranged, the carpets imported, the light fixtures already converted to electricity. But so painfully neat, Roberta thought, glancing into the parlor from the foyer. I wonder where they do their living.

  ‘‘It’s beautiful, Grace,’’ she said as Elfred stepped behind her to take her coat.

  Mercy! she thought, thrusting her midsection forward. Was that his body bumping me from behind while Grace wasn’t looking? Roberta turned, but so did Elfred, away from her to hang her coat on a brass tree in an entry alcove, and to see to the girls’ coats, too.

  Perhaps it was accidental, she thought, and said to her sister, ‘‘I insist on a full tour.’’

  Elfred returned to face her at a respectful distance with Grace looking on. ‘‘Forgive me, Birdy—I may call you Birdy, may I not?’’ Rubbing his palms together, he flashed her a charming smile. ‘‘But since I’m the purveyor of real estate, might I suggest that I give you the tour while Grace sees to breakfast? That way I can point out some of the features of the house that make it most attractive.’’

  Roberta was setting her tongue to inquire if he wanted to point out the fine points of her sister’s decorating while he was at it. It took a great effort to bite back the words.

  Grace advised, ‘‘Do it after breakfast, Elfred. Sophie will have it all laid, I’m sure.’’ She tilted over the ornate banister and bugled up the stairs, ‘‘Girls, are you there?’’

  Three prim young darlings came down, all dressed in starched layers with oversized grosgrain bows in their hair. Their shoes were as polished as their demeanor when they were introduced to their three cousins.

  The oldest, Marcelyn, acted as spokesperson for all of them. ‘‘How do you do. Mother has set a special breakfast table for us in the solarium. Would you like to see it?’’

  The Jewett trio followed, mesmerized, their eyes lifting as they passed beneath the novel electric lights that burned away the April gloom even in the interior halls. In the solarium, a hexagonal room situated at a rear corner of the home, fine china was laid on a filigreed white iron table. Ferns, palms and orchids flourished on tiered metal racks while rain pecked at the windows and occasional thunder rumbled outside.

  ‘‘Holy Moses!’’ Rebecca exclaimed. ‘‘You guys must be filthy rich!’’

  A couple of dubious glances flashed among the Spear girls, followed by a hint of giggling.

  ‘‘What’s so funny?’’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘‘Do you always say exactly what you think?’’

  Rebecca shrugged. ‘‘Pretty much.’’

  ‘‘Mother would have dyspepsia if we talked like that.’’

  ‘‘Then do it where she can’t hear.’’

  Shocked surprise sent more quick glances among the hostess-cousins before Marcelyn politely invited her guests to sit.

  ‘‘Is that what you do?’’ she inquired, fascinated in spite of her upbringing.

  Rebecca was still gazing around. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Say anything you want to behind your mother’s back?’’

  ‘‘Heavens no. We can say anything we want to in front of her. If she doesn’t like it, we discuss it and she gives us a little rhetoric about the pros and cons of good manners versus the impact of imperfect manners on one’s independence. Mother, you see, believes in living your life the way you see fit.’’

  ‘‘Oh
, dear,’’ Marcelyn breathed.

  ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

  ‘‘Well . . . our mother would . . . I mean . . . well, goodness.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I get it. Your mother wouldn’t like such freespirited talk from her chil—’’

  ‘‘Shh.’’ Marcelyn placed a conspiratorial finger over her lips. ‘‘Sophie will be bringing breakfast in any minute, and she reports everything to Mother.’’

  As if on cue, a buxom, gray-haired woman waddled in bearing a tray that dented her ample stomach. The girls sat primly while she placed steaming plates before them.

  ‘‘There you are, some nice, piping kedgeree.’’

  Lydia peered at the glob on her plate. ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘What is it? Why, it’s fish and rice in egg sauce. Every Mainer knows what kedgeree is.’’

  ‘‘Well, we’re not Mainers.’’

  ‘‘But your mother was.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but our mother doesn’t cook much.’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t cook much!’’ Sophie stopped in her tracks. ‘‘Why, that can’t be so.’’

  Under the table, Rebecca nudged Lydia’s leg, shutting her up. Sophie placed hot biscuits, butter and blueberry jam on the table, and Marcelyn asked, ‘‘May I have some coffee, Sophie?’’

  ‘‘Why, Marcelyn Melrose Spear, you know perfectly well your mother would give me the boot if I let you drink coffee.’’

  ‘‘No harm in trying, is there?’’

  Sophie scowled until her single chin became three, and said as she left the room, ‘‘Now make sure you clean your plates.’’

  The moment she disappeared Susan and Lydia set out to do just that, with manners leaving much to be desired. They slurped and chewed with their mouths open and wiped their mouths with the back of their hands.

  While they ate, Rebecca observed, ‘‘Melrose is an odd middle name.’’

  ‘‘It comes from my great-great-grandmother on Father’s side,’’ Marcelyn explained. ‘‘It is said that when she was thirteen she gave birth to her first child in the snow beside the Megunticook River, wrapped it in a fur robe and carried it down to the trading post, where her husband was stone drunk in bed with an Indian woman. She laid the baby between them, sliced off her husband’s left ear and said, ‘There, now maybe the ladies won’t find you so pretty and you’ll stay home where you belong.’ They had eight more children, and the way the Indians told it, half of them were born with no left ear. Have you ever heard of anything so sad and pathetic and romantic in your life?’’