The Little Country

by Charles de Lint

  She was tempted to tell him that this “boyfriend” of hers was going around pretending to be a reporter from Rolling Stone, but all she had to do was think of what Bett’s reaction would be to quickly squelch that idea.

  “Maybe there really is a film,” Felix said.

  Lena nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. And since I wouldn’t come across, he’s found some local bimbo to take my place.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Why not? This whole trip was a mistake from the start and I have to have been a bimbo to fall for it at all.” She shook her head. “And I’ve still got nine days before my flight home.” She inserted a well-timed sigh. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Cornwall‌—I love it around here‌—it’s just not a whole lot of fun when you’re on your own.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Lena gave him a quick smile. “Sounds like you’ve got your own hard-luck story. Want to talk about it? I know I feel better already.”

  “I don’t think so,” Felix said.

  “It’s a woman‌—right?”

  Felix looked up with surprise to find Lena looking sympathetic.

  “It’s always something like that,” she said. “I think we’re cursed to never really find the right partner in life and then, to make things worse, we screw up our lives even more in an endless chase for that perfect someone who’s usually not out there in the first place. And when they are out there, they’re married or won’t give us the time of day, or something.”

  “I can tell you’re coming out of the wrong side of a bad relationship,” Felix said.

  Lena shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not usually so maudlin about this kind of thing‌—I mean, he sure doesn’t deserve my spending the time thinking about him‌—but it starts to wear on you after a while, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  He looked uncomfortable and Lena decided she’d better pull back when he changed the conversation himself.

  “That tattoo on your wrist,” he began.

  “Oh, that old thing. . . .” Self-consciously, she covered it up with her free hand. “I got that done when I was a teenager‌—one of those things that you regret about ten minutes too late.”

  Felix laughed. He’d already taken off his jacket earlier. Now he rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt to show the tattoo he had on his left biceps. It was a full-colour rendition of an old man, sitting on a crate playing an accordion.

  “Now that one I like,” Lena said. “Do you play one of those things yourself?”

  Felix nodded.

  “Professionally?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Oh, I bet you’re really good at it.”

  “I get by.” Felix indicated her left wrist. “So why a dove?”

  “It’s the symbol . . . that is, it’s supposed to be the symbol of an old . . .”

  Now she’d gone too far. If Bett was to hear her now. If her father was to hear her now . . .

  “An old what?”

  “Oh, you know. Peace, love, and flowers, and all that stuff. I was enamoured with the sixties when I was a kid‌—mostly because I just missed out on them. So when I decided to get the tattoo, I thought I’d get a peace symbol, but I never really liked that circle thing, so when I saw the dove in the tattoo guy’s catalogue, I picked it instead.”

  Was he buying it?

  She had no chance to find out because just then the phone rang. Before she could think of a way to stop him, Felix had reached over and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “There’s nobody there,” he said as he hung up.

  “That’s weird.”

  The actress in her wanted to add, maybe it was my boyfriend checking up on me, just for the drama, but she thought better of it. Felix glanced at his watch.

  “I should get going,” he said. “Are you going to be okay? Can I get you some takeout or something for dinner before I go?”

  She decided not to push it any more today. There’d be another day. She was sure enough of herself to know that. And besides, if that had been the Golden Boy on the phone, the sooner Felix was out of here the better.

  “No. I can just call room service.”

  He stood up and retrieved his jacket from the chair where he’d tossed it earlier.

  “There is one thing, though,” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble. . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I’m going to need a cane to hobble around with for the next few days. Is there any chance you could pick one up for me?” As he hesitated, she added, “I’d pay for it, of course.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just‌—” He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “Sure. I can do that.”

  “I know the stores are closed now, so you’d have to go tomorrow.”

  “No problem. What time will you be getting up?”

  “Nine-thirtyish?”

  “I’ll be by around ten.”

  She put on an apologetic look. “There’s one more thing. I’ll take whatever kind you can get, but if there’s a choice, could you maybe find something a little funky? Maybe an old one?”

  Felix smiled. “No problem. There’s some antique shops over on Chapel Street. I don’t know what time they’re open, though.”

  “Whatever. I really appreciate this‌—everything you’ve done. You’ve been really great.”

  Felix nodded. “See you tomorrow, then. And try to stay off that foot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Laughing, Felix let himself out.

  Lena settled back on the bed and smiled to herself. The hooks were in and sinking deep. And if he really was coming off a second rebound with the Little girl, well, that’d just make her job all that much easier, wouldn’t it?

  So why did what she was doing make her feel a little dirty?

  It was an hour later that Bett came by, railing at her. He obviously didn’t believe her story about stumbling over the corner of the rug and spraining her ankle, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do except glare at her‌—that awful promise that if she wasn’t protected by her father just simmering in the pale depths of his eyes.

  When he gave her his instructions concerning Felix Gavin, she wanted to rail right back at him. Trust him to take her own idea so that he could get the credit for it. But she said nothing, and did nothing, until he finally left, that unpleasant promise of his still burning in his eyes. Then she picked up the phone and had the operator give her an overseas connection.

  “Hello, Daddy?” she said when she got through. She put on her best little-girl voice. “I don’t want to sound like a baby or anything, but Mike’s beginning to act a little strange. . . . No, he hasn’t been threatening me or anything, at least he hasn’t said anything, but he did give me a push and I fell down and kind of sprained my ankle. . . . No, it’s okay; just sore. Oh, would you? Could you send Jim? Have him book into a room here, but he should wait for me to contact him.”

  Slowly she’d been letting the little-girl voice change to that of a capable woman.

  “I think you’ll be happy with some developments I’ve been making on my own, Daddy. There’s this man who’s very close to the Little girl‌—no, their surname is Little, remember? She’s quite grown up. Anyway, I’m this close to having him bring me whatever this secret thing of Dunthorn’s is. I thought you’d be pleased. Of course I’ll take care. I love you too, Daddy.”

  There, she thought as she cradled the phone. Her father would tell the other members of the Order that working through Gavin had been her idea and soon she’d have some protection against Bett. Everything was falling neatly into place.

  But when she thought of how she was using Felix, she still felt dirty.

  Don’t be stupid, she told herself. He’s just a dumb sailor.

  True. But he was a nice dumb sailor, and maybe not so dumb as that. And he’d certainly treated her better
than most people in her own social circles did. How many of them would have even stopped if they saw a woman‌—attractive or not‌—take a fall from her bike?

  She stared across her room. Her ankle was aching again.

  “Shit,” she said to no one in particular.

  Why did everything always have to be so complicated?

  8.

  There was no one in when Janey got back home. She put on water for tea and went next door to her own rooms to get a sweater. After she’d put it on and checked her mirror to make sure that that thing she’d seen this morning really hadn’t been a pimple, she went over to the bookcase to make sure that The Little Country was still there.

  It was right where it was supposed to be.

  Taking the book down from the shelf, she flipped idly through a few pages, pausing for a moment when she thought she could hear that music again. But no sooner did she listen for it, than it was gone. Sighing, she closed the book with a snap and went back to the Gaffer’s with the book under her arm to call Clare.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t ring up earlier,” she began when she had her friend on the line, “but the most amazing thing happened.” Whereupon she launched into an account of the reporter coming by late that morning and how they’d gone over to the Pantry for the interview.

  “What was he like?” Clare wanted to know.

  “Oh, very nice. American. I’m not quite sure how old, but not too old. He’s got Paul Newman eyes and he knows about as much about the music as anyone I’ve met, so I’m sure the article will be good.”

  “Because of his eyes?”

  “Clare!”

  Her friend laughed. “Just teasing. You must be pleased.”

  “Aren’t I just.”

  “When’s it coming out?”

  “He didn’t say. It probably won’t be for a while, though. You know how these magazines work‌—they’re buying Christmas stories in June.”

  “Have you seen Felix yet?” Clare asked.

  “No. I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

  “I met him up by the Coastguard lookout about midmorning. When he left, he was going back to your place. That was only a bit past twelve.”

  “I must have just missed him. I wonder where he’s gone off to now?”

  “How do you feel about seeing him again?”

  “I’m not sure,” Janey said. “Both happy and scared, I suppose.”

  “But you still fancy him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Janey said before she really thought about what she was saying, but then she realized it was true.

  “He’s a wonderful bloke,” Clare said. “Make sure you hang on to him this time.”

  “I’m planning to have a talk with him when he gets back,” Janey said. “And this time I won’t be the least bit emperent, as the Gaffer’d say.”

  “Maybe he likes you cheeky.”

  “Maybe he does. I hear someone at the door, so I’ve got to run. It might be Felix.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  Janey cradled the phone just as the door opened, but it was the Gaffer. Much as she loved her grandfather, right then Janey wished it had been Felix instead.

  “Not had a good day, Gramps?” she asked when she saw the grim set to his features.

  The Gaffer sighed. “Oh, I’ve some bad news to tell you, my gold, and I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Chalkie isn’t hurt, is he?”

  She could imagine the two old codgers messing about with that stone wall of Chalkie’s and one of them dropping a great big hunk of granite on the other’s foot.

  “No,” the Gaffer said. “Nothing like that.”

  He looked so sad.

  “Well, what is it?” Janey asked.

  The Gaffer sat down at the kitchen table, moving stiffly as though he’d begun to feel the weight of his years for the first time. Seeing that made Janey feel even more concerned.

  “It’s about Felix, my robin. He’s betrayed our trust.”

  As the Gaffer told her what he’d seen in Newlyn that afternoon, who Felix had been so cozy with on his bicycle, all the blood drained out of Janey’s features.

  “It’s not true,” she said in a small voice. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “I wish it weren’t, my love, but I saw what I saw.”

  All Janey could do then was look at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

  The Wheels of the World

  This was the machinery of life, not a clean, clinical well-oiled engine, monitored by a thousand meticulous dials, but a crazy, stumbling contraption made up of strange things

  roughly fitted together.

  ‌—MARGARET MAHY, from Memory

  Nettie Shepherd opened her front door to find Denzil standing on her stoop. He leaned on his silver-headed cane and peered at her through his hazy glasses that were fogging up due to the heat escaping from the house.

  Ample was the best description that came to mind whenever Denzil met Jodi’s aunt. She was a large woman, but her largeness was proportionate. She had enormous thighs, and equally bounteous breasts, broad shoulders, a generous face, a waterfall of red-gold hair‌—in short, everything about her was larger than life. The grin that touched her lips at the sight of him was wide and expansive as well, touched with a cat’s knowing satisfaction.

  “Well, now,” she said. “I never thought to see you here.”

  “I’m not here for business, you, I’m here . . .” Denzil’s voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying.

  “For pleasure? They’re one and the same under this roof, Master Gossip.”

  “Ahem. Yes, well. Actually, I’ve come ’round about Jodi. Is she in?”

  “You mean she’s not been with you?”

  Denzil shook his head, “I haven’t seen her all day.”

  Nettie pursed her lips, then opened the door wider.

  “You’d better come in,” she said.

  Denzil hesitated for a moment, looking up and down the street before he followed her inside. Though he hadn’t thought it possible, Nettie’s grin actually widened.

  “Afraid someone would see you entering this den of iniquity?”

  “It is a bawdy house,” Denzil replied somewhat huffily.

  “Yes, we do have bodies.”

  “Please.”

  Abruptly Nettie looked serious. “You’re quite right,” she said.

  She took his cane and hat, leaning the one against the wall, hanging the other by the door. Denzil snatched the opportunity of having both his hands free to wipe his glasses.

  “This isn’t much of an evening for bantering,” Nettie added.

  Denzil soon found out why.

  Ushered into her sitting room, he discovered that he wasn’t Nettie’s only non-paying visitor of the evening. Sitting each to a chair by the window were Cadan Tremeer, Bodbury’s chief constable, and the Widow Pender. Tremeer lifted his bulk from his chair and offered Denzil a pudgy hand. The constable smelled vaguely of perfume, which made Denzil wonder if he hadn’t been called to duty from one of the rooms upstairs. Once Denzil had shaken the man’s hand, Tremeer settled back into his chair with obvious relief.

  The Widow merely nodded at Denzil.

  “Some tea?” Nettie asked.

  Denzil shook his head. He took off his glasses, cleaned them again on the sleeve of his jacket, then set them back upon the bridge of his nose where they promptly fogged up once more. Nettie indicated a chair, but he remained standing.

  “Has Jodi got herself mixed up in some sort of misadventure?” he asked.

  The Widow hrumphed.

  “It’s serious this time,” Nettie said.

  Tremeer nodded, trying to fit a grim look to his jolly features without much success.

  “She broke into the Widow’s house and stole an heirloom,” he said.

  He pronounced the word “hair-loom,” as though what had been stolen was a tool on which one could weave hair.

  Denzil shook
his head. “Jodi wouldn’t steal a farthing, you.”

  “The Widow saw her leaving through a window herself. I’ve been ’round, Master Gossip, and there’s a fearsome mess there. Glass broken. Geegaws scattered every which way. It doesn’t look good.”

  Denzil looked to Nettie. “What does Jodi have to say about this?”

  “Well, that’s what makes it look so bad,” the constable said before she could reply. “Young Miss Shepherd’s not to be found.”

  Denzil finally took the chair Nettie had offered him earlier.

  Now this was a fine how-to-do, wasn’t it just? he thought. It was the last thing he would have expected to discover when he first decided that Nettie’s place was where he should begin his inquiries.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” he asked Nettie.

  “When she went to bed‌—early for her. Before midnight.”

  “And?” Denzil prompted her, perceiving that she hadn’t told all yet.

  Nettie sighed. “Her bed hadn’t been slept in and her window was open. Time to time, she thinks she’s like your monkey, Master Gossip, and goes climbing about on the drainpipes. Gets her to the ground quickly and without being seen, and then she’s off on some kitey lark or another.”

  “Such as robbing an old woman of her memories,” the Widow said, speaking up for the first time.

  Her voice was quavery and she was wearing a hangdog expression that Denzil didn’t believe for a moment. He’d seen her jaunting about often enough to know that she was as spry as a woman half her years, and as mean as the most curmudgeonly old salt. He’d believe her capable of any nastiness‌—knowing she’d do it for the pure spite of the deed. What he didn’t subscribe to was the so-called magical curses she supposedly could command‌—no matter what the children of the Tatters claimed.

  “How do you know it was Jodi?” he asked. “It was at night, wasn’t it? Couldn’t you have been mistaken, you?”

  “I know that girl,” the Widow said. “She eggs on the other children to lampoon me.”