At the Water's Edge (18 page)

When I opened his top dresser drawer, I found a photograph of Hank and him standing on the beach at Bar Harbor, their arms slung casually over each other's shoulders and grinning into the sun. Beneath it was a photograph of Hank alone, standing shirtless on the deck of a sailboat with his hands on his hips. His chest glistened, his arms and shoulders were muscled, and he smiled mischievously at whoever was behind the camera. There was no picture of me, although I must have been around.

In the next drawer down, I found several monogrammed handkerchiefs folded into packets. I opened them and counted more than a hundred of my pills. Then I folded them back up and left them where
they were. I didn't want him to think that Anna or Meg had taken them.

I had been locking my door only at night but decided to start keeping it locked during the day as well. I wanted to see how long it took him to go through that many pills.

I wondered if anyone other than Anna had seen the condition of Hank's and Ellis's rooms. I hoped not. I could only imagine what she thought of them and, by association, me.

Both of them would come back and see that everything had been put away and think nothing of what the person who'd done it had seen or thought. Indeed, they wouldn't think of the person at all, except perhaps to feel victorious.

Although I'd unpacked my own things after only a couple of days, I was ashamed of how much I'd always taken for granted. I wondered how Emily was faring, and wished I could let her know how grateful I was for everything she'd done for me over the years. I couldn't imagine it was easy being Edith Stone Hyde's maid at that particular moment in time.

When the rooms were all finished and I'd replaced the quilts, closed the windows, and put up the Blackout frames, I slipped a few pairs of silk stockings from my own supply into Meg's top drawer.

W
hen I returned to the kitchen, Anna looked at me in surprise.

“Surely you're not finished!” she said.

“I am.”

“And you've put all their things away?”

“I have.”

“Well, if that doesn't call for a cup of tea, I don't know what does. Get settled by the fire and I'll be right out. I think we deserve a proper
strupag
, don't you?”

“So, are the sheets still smelling of paraffin?” Anna asked, sipping daintily from a teacup decorated with primroses and edged with gold leaf.

She'd brought out oatcakes and jam along with the tea, which was the strongest I'd seen yet, all of it served on fine china. She'd even put a doily on the tray.

“I didn't smell anything,” I said.

“Good. Because the wash is not a job I'm keen on doing myself. There's some that won't send it out because they're afraid it'll come
back with lice.” She harrumphed. “Personally, I'm more afraid of what George will put next to it in that van of his.”

“Why on earth would it come back with lice?”

“Because the same laundry facility also does the wash for the men at the Big House and forestry camps. It's mostly old folk and Wee Frees who worry about it, but I suspect the real problem is that sending your wash out smacks of being a luxury. I'm just grateful Mhàthair isn't of that opinion—she's about as strict as they come, being old
and
a Wee Free.”

The top log on the fire slid toward us, sending up a cascade of sparks. Anna rose and jammed it back into place with the poker.

“And stay there!” she scolded, watching it for a few seconds before sitting back down.

“That may explain the old woman doing her laundry in the river the other day,” I said. “Although it seemed a very odd place to do it.”

Anna set her tea down. “I beg your pardon?”

“I got lost in the Cover, chased in by a crow of all things. I thought it was following me.”

I was suddenly aware that the atmosphere had changed. I looked up to find that Anna had gone pale. I ran through what I'd said, wondering which part could possibly have caused offense.

“I'm sorry,” I said, panicked. “I don't really think that.”

Anna continued to stare at me.

I put my tea down, afraid I would spill it. “Please forget I said anything. I have an overly active imagination.”

“Who was doing laundry where?” she asked sharply.

“An old woman was washing a shirt in the river. She didn't answer when I asked for help. Then, when I tried to get closer, I couldn't find her. It was like she'd never—Anna, whatever is the matter?”

She'd clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Anna? What's wrong? Please tell me what I've done.”

“The Caonaig,” she said hoarsely. “You've seen the Caonaig.”

I shook my head. “What's the Caonaig? I don't understand.”

“Someone's going to die,” she said.

“No, surely not. It was just an old woman—”

“Wearing green?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did she have a protruding tooth?”

I hesitated even longer. “Yes.”

“Was she crying?”

This time I didn't answer, but apparently my eyes gave me away.

Anna shrieked and bolted into the kitchen. I called after her, and then ran after her, but she was gone, leaving the door flapping on its hinges. I ran back to the front door, but by the time I stepped into the road, she was receding into the distance on her bicycle.

“What's going on?” Mr. Ross said.

I whipped around. He and Conall had come up behind me in the street.

“She thinks I've seen the Caonaig,” I said helplessly.

“And what made her think that?”

“Because I saw an old woman washing a shirt in the river.”

He took a sharp breath that whistled through his teeth.

“But how can that mean someone's going to die?” I said desperately. “It was just an old woman. I don't understand.”

“Anna still has two brothers at the Front,” he said.

Still?

I turned to look down the road, where she'd disappeared.

I went upstairs and hid in my room, but about an hour before Meg usually returned from the sawmill I began to panic. Anna had not come back, and she always started the dinner, which Meg then finished and served to the customers. Eventually, I crept downstairs again, thinking I'd at least better warn Mr. Ross that there would be no food to serve, but there was no sign of him either.

I didn't know what to do, but since I'd somehow managed to cause the problem, I ducked into the kitchen and scoured the pantry for the makings of a meal.

I realized almost immediately that it was hopeless, not only because I couldn't find any of the meat I'd seen delivered that morning, but because even if I could, I wouldn't have had a clue what to do with it. I wasn't even sure how to start potatoes, and in about an hour upward of twenty men would start arriving, each of them expecting to be fed.

When Meg came in the back door, she found me leaning over the butcher's block table, my head buried in my hands. She quickly assessed the situation, her eyes landing on the empty range.

“Anna left early,” I said.

“What's happened?”

“I said something to upset her.”

“And what was that?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” I said miserably. “But I can tell you I didn't mean to do it.”

I expected her to grill me, but instead she simply set her coat and gas mask on the chair and said, “Right then. Can you get the tatties going?”

I blinked a couple of times. “Yes. I think.”

“You think, or you can?”

“I think.”

The truth was, I didn't even know how to slice bread. During my ravenous adolescent raids of the kitchen, I'd torn the bread off in chunks, digging out the soft middle to eat first, and then gnawing at the crust over the sink so I could rinse away the evidence.

Meg told me to fill the largest pot with water, add salt and forty potatoes, and put it on to boil. She stoked the fire herself while instructing me to hurry up about it so my husband didn't come back and catch me where I didn't belong, because she had a feeling that wouldn't go very well.

Then she went out back to retrieve something she called “potted hough,” for which she thanked the dear Lord, for she had some on hand and it was served cold.

The bar was abuzz that night with news of the bombing, which distracted somewhat from the mashed potatoes, which tasted as though I'd boiled them in seawater. I also hadn't realized I was supposed to remove the skin or dig out the dark spots, or that the knife was supposed to glide smoothly through before I declared them done, all of which Meg explained to me later. I saw more than one man lift a full fork, examine it with disbelief, and then attempt to fling the potatoes back onto the plate to see how tenaciously they stuck. Poor Meg—although there wasn't a man in the room brave enough to complain, she was assumed to be responsible.

Conall, who'd joined me by the fire as soon as Hank and Ellis arrived, didn't seem to mind how gluey they were. I was convinced that he'd come because he knew I needed moral support, so to thank him I began slipping him tiny bits of mashed potato on the end of my finger, which he gravely licked. At one point, I thought I saw Mr. Ross watching when I had a potato-dipped finger extended in offering. Apparently Conall thought so too, for he stared straight ahead and ignored it until his master's attentions were elsewhere. Only then did he tip his head toward me and let his tongue sneak out the side of his mouth.

Since the bombing hadn't made it into the paper, people were adding their own bits of knowledge to the general story. Hank and Ellis listened with great interest.

Two bombers had flown down the Great Glen from Norway, targeting the British Aluminium plant in Foyers, a village several miles down the other side of Loch Ness. One night guard had been killed when the blast threw him into the plant's turbine, and another died of a heart attack.

When someone shared the news that one of the Heinkels had gone down in Loch Lochy almost immediately after, I gasped and looked at Mr. Ross. He finished pulling a pint and slid it across the bar to one of the locals as though he hadn't heard.

“Well, whadya know,” said Hank, his voice betraying a sliver of respect. “He shot down a bomber with a fucking rifle. I wonder why he's not fighting?”

“That's a very good question,” said Ellis. He twisted in his seat and said, “Say, bartender, my friend here has a question for you.”

“Don't!” I whispered, utterly appalled.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it's none of our business,” I hissed. “And he's the landlord, for goodness' sake, not the bartender. Can't you show a little respect?”

But it was too late.

“And what would that be?” asked Mr. Ross.

“You're pretty good with a gun,” said Hank. “Why aren't you at the Front?”

The room went silent. Mr. Ross simply stared at Hank.

It was Rory who finally spoke. “That's funny,” he said slowly. “We've been wondering the same about you.”

“Medically unfit,” Hank said, as though it were all a joke.

“You look healthy enough to me.”

“I have a condition called
pes planus
,” Hank said.

“Do you now?” said Rory. “Is that Latin for yellow belly?”

Hank jumped to his feet. The lumberjack also rose, but slowly. He was clearly more than a match for Hank.

“Hank,
sit down
,” I pleaded.

“And let him get away with calling me a coward?”

“If the shoe fits,” said Rory.

“Ellis, are you going to just sit there and let him call us cowards?” Hank said, outraged.

“He wasn't talking to me,” Ellis muttered.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” said Rory. “Have you got some fancy diagnosis for lily liver too?
Planus lilicus
, perhaps?”

“I have protanopia,” said Ellis. “I can't see color. And for your information, I tried to enlist twice.”

“The lot of you should mind your own business,” said Meg, coming out from behind the bar.

“It
is
my business, if he calls me a coward,” said Hank.

She threw him an exasperated look, gave up, and turned to the
lumberjack. “You can't fight him, Rory. You heard what he said. He's got a medical condition. You can't go around beating up invalids.”

Hank opened his mouth to protest, and Ellis whacked him on the side of the leg.

“They don't look sick,” said Rory.

“Well, you don't always, do you? George the Jannie looked just fine until he dropped dead of a weak heart. You can't fight a man with
pes planus
. You might kill him on the spot.”

Rory stared at Hank for a long time. He finally returned to his seat. “I suppose you're right,” he said with a sigh. “It would be like kicking a puppy, wouldn't it?”

“Of course I'm right, you daft fool,” said Meg, slapping him on the arm. He responded by slapping her bottom. She whipped around and pointed a finger in his face, but he just laughed and blew her a kiss. She glared at him and sailed back behind the counter.

As the rest of the men returned to their conversations, Hank and Ellis sat in silence, both of them ashen.

A
nna showed up the next morning and served breakfast as though nothing had happened. I wondered whether she'd decided that the deaths in Foyers had satisfied the Caonaig's ghoulish requirement.

I watched her surreptitiously, hoping that the fragile thing that had sprung up between us hadn't changed and that she'd still let me help with the rooms, but I had to wait to find out because Ellis and Hank were still there.

Neither of them said a word about their rooms having been put straight. Instead, they sputtered indignantly about why everyone thought it was all right to judge them when clearly Blackbeard was as fit as anyone else except for his missing digit, which just as clearly didn't prevent him from shooting a gun. They said all this right in front of Anna, as though she didn't exist, and I cringed with embarrassment. She was at the far end of the room, sweeping the hearth with a broom made of sticks. She acted impervious, but I knew she wasn't.

I had almost given up hope of them ever leaving when George the Vannie showed up.

“I've oiled yon door for you,” he said, glancing bashfully at Anna and swinging it back and forth. “Yesterday afternoon when I came back.”

“That's very kind of you,” she said, without looking at him.

He stared openly for several seconds, and from his stricken expression I could tell he was in love with her.

“Well, I'll be waiting outside then,” he said to Ellis and Hank.

“We'll be right out. Oh, say, do you still have a compass?” Ellis asked, turning to me. “We're missing one.”

“It's in my right coat pocket,” I said. “Hanging by the door.”

He went over and rifled through it.

“When did you go into botany?” he said, looking into his palm. He came back and dropped a handful of the red and fawn toadstools on the table. “Throw these out. They look noxious.”

There was a flurry of activity as they got on their coats and hats and gathered their equipment. When the door finally closed behind them, the only sound was the rhythmic swish of Anna's broom against the stone floor.

I wanted to start a conversation and figure out where things stood, but even though Hank and Ellis had left, their presence lingered like a cloud of soot.

Anna finally glanced up and said, “Those are elves' cups you've got there. They're not poisonous, but they're also not tasty. They dry well, if you want to keep a bowl in your room.”

“I'll do that. Thank you,” I said.

“So what
is
wrong with them?” she asked.

I didn't have to ask what she meant.

“Hank is flat-footed and Ellis is color-blind.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I see.”

“It's true. He can't tell red from green—it's all just gray to him. He didn't even know before he tried to enlist. There's absolutely nothing he can do about it, but people don't believe it. They think he's making it up. That's why we're here—he thinks that finding the monster will force people to recognize he's not a coward.”

“Does he now?” she said, and went back to sweeping.

For a moment, I could think of nothing to say. I realized I was finished making excuses for either of them.

“I suppose you've heard what they said to Mr. Ross last night.”

“To who?”

“Mr. Ross. Angus.”

She laughed. “Angus is a Grant. What on earth gave you the idea he was a Ross?”

“The sign,” I said. “It says A. W. Ross. And then on our first day here, you told me that he ran the place…”

“He
does
run the place, but the proprietor is Alisdair. Angus is just holding down the fort until Alisdair gets back from the Front.” She leaned the broom against the wall and put her hands on her hips. “Have you thought that all along?”

Someone knocked on the door, a solemn, slow rhythm.

Anna frowned. “Well, I don't like the sound of that. Not one bit.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and answered the door. Willie the Postie was on the doorstep, holding his hat in his hands. His face was gray.

“And for what reason are you knocking, Willie?” Anna said in an angry voice that did nothing to mask her fear. “The door's not locked. Come in then, if that's what you're wanting. I haven't got all day.”

“I'm very sorry, Anna,” he said without moving. “But you need to go home.”

“What are you on about? I see nowt in your hands but your hat.”

“You need to go home,” he repeated quietly. “I've just delivered a telegram.”

Anna's knees buckled. She reached for the doorframe.

I shoved my chair back and rushed to her, grabbing her by the waist.

“Your parents need you,” Willie said. “Go to them.”

She caught his wrist, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Which one was it?” she said frantically. “Tell me that much.”

“Anna—”

“Was it Hugh or was it Robbie?”

Willie's mouth opened, but it was a few seconds before he spoke. “ 'Twas Hugh,” he finally said, lowering his gaze.

She dropped his wrist and twisted free of me. She took a step backward, shaking her head, her eyes wild. “You're wrong. It's not true! It'll be like Angus! You'll see!”

Willie shook his head helplessly. “Anna…”

She took flight, bursting past him and out the door. When I tried to follow, Willie caught my arm.

“Let her go,” he said.

He was right. I had no business intruding. When he realized I wasn't struggling anymore, he loosened his grip.

I craned my neck past the doorframe and saw Anna pedaling furiously away, her bicycle jerking from side to side with the effort, her hair flying in the wind.

She'd left everything behind—coat, hat, scarf, and gas mask. If I'd known where the croft was, I would have taken them and left them on the doorstep, but all I knew was that it was somewhere between the inn and the castle.

I searched for the master key, eventually finding it on a hook under the bar. Then I made up the rooms, moving through the tasks like a robot. When I was finished, I went back and did them again.

I lined the toiletries up at exact intervals on the dressers. I wiped the mirrors clean. I picked the wax off the candleholders and smoothed the surfaces of the quilts. And when there was nothing left to straighten or polish or dust, I went to bed.

I stayed in my room that evening, despite Ellis's insistence that I join him for dinner. I could tell from his tone that he was in a foul mood, and when I stopped responding, his entreaties turned into accusations of mental instability. He threatened to send for a doctor if I didn't come out.

I did not, and a doctor never appeared.

Hours after everyone else had gone to bed, I continued to thrash, twisting the quilts around my feet and punching my pillow, trying to find a position that would finally allow me to rest, but nothing helped, because it was not my body that refused to go still. My throat was so tight I could barely swallow, and my eyes welled with tears.

I knew with absolute certainty that if I'd gone upstairs right away, my mother would still be alive. But if I hadn't gone into the Cover and seen the Caonaig, would Hugh also still be alive?

I crept downstairs and sat by the fire, which had been dampened with a layer of ash.

When Mr. Grant found me, I was on the floor in front of the grate, hugging my knees to my chest. I didn't hear him coming, or even notice the light of the candle.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

I jerked around, pulling my nightgown over my ankles in an attempt to hide my bare feet. My cheeks were slick with tears.

“What's wrong? What's happened?” He held the candle closer and looked me over.

The lump in my throat had grown even larger, and it was difficult for me to speak. When I did, my voice was strangled. “I did it, didn't I?”

“Did what, lass?” He set the candle on the low table and knelt beside me, searching my eyes with his. “What have you done?”

“I've killed Anna's brother.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“I saw the Caonaig—I didn't want to see her, but I did, and then when I told Anna, she knew right away what it meant. I thought she was just being superstitious, but it turns out she was right. If I'd just stayed out of the Cover, if I hadn't let that stupid crow chase me in, her brother would still be alive.”

“Oh,” he said, letting the word slide out on a long exhale. His expression melted into one of pity and sadness. “No. No, lass. He would not.”

“But I saw the Caonaig—”

“You didn't do anything. It was the godforsaken war.”

“But Anna's already lost at least one other brother. How much loss are people supposed to bear?”

He shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't know. It seems there's nothing so good or pure it can't be taken without a moment's notice. And then in the end, it all gets taken anyway.”

I looked wildly into his face. “If that's the case, what's the point of even living?”

“I wish I knew,” he said with a wry half smile. “For some time now, that's been a source of great mystery to me.”

I looked at him for a few seconds longer and then burst into tears—colossal, heaving sobs that wracked my shoulders.

Before I knew what was happening, he'd wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him, breathing heavily into my hair. I scrabbled onto my knees and tossed my arms around his neck, pressing my open, sobbing mouth on the pulse that beat so strongly in his throat.