The Ebbing Tide (30 page)

“They do get tired, but it pays off. Some places swear by bream, but there's nothing like good corned herring to fetch in the lobsters.”

In the flickering glow Laurie's eyes were as wide and entranced as a child's. “It may be hard work, but it's a beautiful sight. It's sort of—romantic.” She laughed shyly, and Joanna said seriously, “I always thought it was romantic too.”

Laurie leaned against a stack of traps and looked up. “The stars are lovely. And it's so warm, too. I had no idea it would be like this. Every time I get a letter from home they think I'm kidding about the weather.”

“This is unusual for the Island. It's the first of November, do you realize that?” She knocked on one of the traps, and Laurie laughed.

“What are you worried about?”

“This is a weather-breeder, I'm afraid. You may see some real Island stuff in a few days—wind and surf. Everything's been too good.”

“I'd like to see a good storm,” Laurie said. “But I suppose it's hard on the traps and the boats.”

“Yes, sometimes it is,” Joanna answered absently. “Let's walk around to the wharf and watch them bail out the herring.”

She was more afraid of a storm than she would let anyone know. The September hurricane had passed them by; there'd been hardly one big gale this year, the traps were intact, the lobster prices high. Tonight she was more apprehensive than she'd been all fall. It was much too wann, the stars were too close, too softly brilliant. Oh, everybody was looking for a blow, but no one seemed very worried—no one but herself. The men had grown soft this year, she thought grimly; soft with good weather, good living, good money. But the crash would have to come sometime, and then there'd be a decade of poor lobstering, beginning just about the time the war ended and the other lobstermen came home.

She threw off this ominous mood when they reached the old wharf. There, by lantern light, the men were bailing out the doryloads of herring into bushel baskets. Matthew, in one dory, and Sigurd in the other were doing the bailing. The other men stood on the wharf, operating the hoist and reaching out for the loaded baskets when they came up. A space was penned off in a low shed and the filled baskets were dumped in there. The growing pile of herring made a shining mass on the rude board floor. In the morning the men would divide them, and lightly salt them down, and each man would have his share of bait for the next few days.

Thea and Leonie were on the wharf, watching what was going on; Thea had been laughing shrilly at some exchange of ribald banter between Sigurd and Owen, as Joanna came around the corner of the boat shop. But she seemed to fall back out of the radius of the lantern glow when she saw Joanna and Laurie.

Dennis was there too, pulling on the hoist. He glanced back at Joanna and nodded.
He has a nice smile
, she thought involuntarily, and then asked Owen quickly how thick the herring had been.

“We're through for the night,” he said. “There's not much doin'. Damn' things have gone out to sea I guess—must be a storm on the way.” He grinned at Laurie, his teeth startling white in his sooty face.

“Want to get down here and bail herrin', Miss Lady?”

“Sure!” said Laurie, unabashed. He laughed, and went back to the hoist. The smell of fresh herring was clean and acrid. Leonie was holding a pan in which Sigurd had arranged a half-dozen plump, glittering fish; they'd be good for dinner tomorrow, fried crisply, or corned in the kettle. When the last basket came up, and Matthew and Sigurd began to clean up the dories with buckets of sea water, Joanna called to Owen.

“We're going along, Owen. Bring up some herring, will you? Some to fry, and some to have corned.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Owen roared after them. “You gonna have coffee, and cut into that spice cake you made?”

Everybody was moving homeward, toward soap and water and coffee. Scales sparkled on everything, the men walked in an aura that smelled of salt water and herring. Laurie was watching happily the shifting figures in the lantern light, as if they were characters in a strange and fascinating book, and Joanna looked back at Owen.

“I guess I can cut the cake if you want some.”

“Laurie wants some too. Huh, Laurie? I'll take you home afterwards!”

“Well—” Laurie looked doubtful. “I've got papers to correct—”

“Fine!” said Owen triumphantly. “She's stayin'. Well, you women get up there and get the coffee made, and I'll be along. Dennis, too.” He put his big hand on the other man's shoulder. “You want some coffee, don't you, Doc?”

“I guess Leonie's got some ready, Owen.” Dennis was filling his pipe.

“Oh, to hell with that. You know you want to come up with us. Set out four cups, Jo.”

Joanna hesitated. She was oddly happy, knowing that Owen would prevail; at the same time she could have slapped Owen for making an issue of this, for being so loud about it. For Thea hadn't gone yet. Joanna could sense her presence, she knew that when she turned around she would see the pale blur of Thea's hair and face over against the boatshop wall. She'd be lingering there, listening, even though Franny had been one of the first to go home.

Thea, hating Owen because he'd always ignored her or laughed at her, hating Joanna for being Joanna, despising Laurie and Dennis on principle, would love to make something out of this. No one else on the Island would care much, they would only notice after Thea had listened, conjectured, and then made her sly suppositions. The thought of it was an uncleanliness, to be “talked about” was to be soiled.

Beside her Laurie was saying happily, “That's what I like about this place! Everything's an excuse to have coffee!”

And Owen, closing the door of the low shed so the gulls couldn't walk in and have an early morning feast, was shouting at her. “Go on, woman ! Don't stand there gawpin'!”

She went, without looking toward Thea at all. Laurie said, “I didn't really have papers, but it sounds so professional!” She laughed aloud. “With five pupils, I get everything done in jig time. It doesn't seem right to have things so easy, and to be having so much fun at the same time.”

“Oh, you'll make up for it later on,” said Joanna cheerfully, forcibly ejecting Thea from her mind. “Wait till you're in a big school, with forty pupils under your nose.”

“Oh, I'll get along,” said Laurie confidently.

Ellen was in bed. Joanna and Laurie set out cups and saucers, crackers, and strong, old-fashioned, rat-trap cheese. The spice cake was golden-brown under the Aladdin lamp. Laurie was as enthusiastic as if it were really a party, and it was impossible not to respond.

The men came in, minus oilskins and rubber boots, and washed up at the sink. Owen was in one of his exhilarated moods. He teased Laurie unmercifully, watching her with glinting black eyes, and Laurie laughed back at him, confident and poised. Dennis was quiet, sitting back out of the Aladdin's yellow glow, smoking his pipe and watching Joanna. She tried to joke with the others, she laughed at Laurie's quick answers, but she found herself forever glancing back at Dennis; and always he would be watching her. Owen and Laurie were too absorbed in each other to notice, and she was thankful for that. She wished she could be oblivious, but instead she felt as uncertain of herself, as quick to blush, as a sixteen-year-old.

She kept busy, bringing more coffee until no one could possibly drink any more. Every time she was obliged to call Dennis by name, she was sure her voice sounded peculiar. She was furious at her own self-consciousness.
I'll have to conquer it
, she decided stoutly,
or I'll never get rid of it. And its so unnecessary
. She turned toward Dennis brightly, decisively.

“Dennis, how do
you
think we should treat the war prisoners?” she demanded. “There was a man on the radio at supper time who says we're too soft—what do you think?”

Dennis smiled. “Do we have to bring the war into this pleasant little interval?”

“Why not? What right have we to forget it?” Then she turned hotly red. “I'm sorry, Dennis. I didn't really mean to say that.”

“I'm sure you didn't.” He put his pipe back into his mouth and nodded at Laurie and Owen. “This is the best thing I've heard in years. Who's ahead?”

“They're neck and neck,” said Joanna, and Owen swung toward her.

“What's that about neckin'? Laurie, my fair one, you ready to go home yet?”

“I'm ready to go home,” said Laurie with dignity. “Home, that is. On the double, with no time out.”

Owen brought her coat. He exuded masculine superiority as he towered over her. “What is this power I have over women? She argues, but I know damn' well she doesn't mean it.”

“It's the biggest love affair in history,” Joanna said to Laurie. “Owen's in love with Owen. I don't know how you stand him.”

Laurie laughed, and glanced up at Owen, her thick hair shining in the lamplight, her eyes as bright as his. “Oh, we get along. Good night, Jo—good night, Dennis.”

Dennis stood up. “Good night, Laurie.”

When they had gone, the silence was too strong. Joanna began to gather up the dishes, making unnecessary trips to stretch the task. “Let me help you,” said Dennis politely, picking up the sugar bowl. She took it from him, shaking her head.

“No, sit down and relax,” she said gaily. “You've been working hard all day.”

“So have you.”

“Look, it's practically done. I'll just rinse out the cups and dry them, while you smoke your pipe and get the late news.”

She was being a little too brisk; she saw him glance at her, sidewise, one eyebrow lifted faintly. His mouth quirked a little. “I thought we were leaving the war out of this.”

“Then just smoke your pipe.” Her voice rose nervously, and stopped. For a moment her mind went helplessly blank, she found herself staring at him, her lips parted, her hands lifted in a little futile gesture.

“Joanna,” Dennis said gently. He stood across the table from her, she saw his square-tipped fingers, with their clean, short-clipped nails, resting on the cloth. “Joanna, do I bother you, being here like this?”

She answered too readily. “No, of course not! How could you?”

“I don't ever want to be in your way, Joanna. Do you understand that?” His voice was low, but each word was edged distinctly, as they had been the night above Barque Cove. She looked from his hands to his face; it was grave, and kind, and there was a sort of shining intensity in his deepset gray eyes. “I'd leave the Island before I'd cause you any—annoyance whatever. Do you believe that?”

“Dennis—” She stopped, and then tried again. “Please—I wish you wouldn't talk like this. You ought to know me well enough to realize how much I like you.” Color rushed into her cheeks, her eyes were wide and very dark. “Everybody likes you. And you're the last person on earth who could annoy
anybody
.”

There was nothing else to say. She turned away from the light and walked out into the dim kitchen. He came behind her, and stopped in the doorway. “You know, Joanna, I've had a strange feeling lately, whenever we've been talking, that things aren't the same between us as they were. I feel a sense of strain since—shall we say?—that night after the dance.” He hesitated, as if he were waiting. Then he added quietly, “I hope I'm wrong.”

She swung around then, goaded beyond poise, and faced him. “Of course you're wrong! How could there be any difference between us? And certainly that walk couldn't make for any sense of strain!” She shrugged as if in utter impatience. “How
could
it? It was perfectly harmless, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Dennis nodded. “Perfectly harmless.”

She leaned back against the sink, her hands reaching behind her to hold the cool molding. Inwardly she was trembling but she forced her eyes to hold his, she lifted her chin in the old defiant gesture.

“Well,” said Dennis at last. “I'm glad I spoke about this, Joanna, because I wanted to know.”

“You'll take my word for it, won't you?”

“Certainly I'll take your word for it.” He smiled at her, and the inner trembling increased until she was sure she couldn't hide it. He took his mackinaw and hat from the hook behind the door. “As you said, I've been working hard all day. I'll go along now, and get some sleep.”

“That's what I need too,” said Joanna. “In spite of all that coffee.”

“Don't come to the door with me. Good night, Joanna. Sleep well.” He went out. Slowly, and with infinite care, she unclamped her fingers from the edge of the sink. Her one aim at the moment was to get up into the protective dark shell of her room before Owen came In.

And yet, when she reached that room, she was not comforted ; there could never be much comfort against the turmoil that beat inside her mind and body.

T
HE VERY NEXT MORNING
the warmth was gone, and the clarity and brilliance of the air. The harbor was the color of pewter, and the smoke from the chimneys went down on the wind. Ellen put on mittens that morning when she went to school, and it was too raw to put Jamie outside. In the sitting room, out of the way, he sat in a cardboard carton and rowed with two laths, going to haul. Joanna could hear him talking brightly to the “lo'sters,” coaxing them aboard. Owen went down to the shop to work. There was always work to do, no matter whether it was a fit hauling day or not.

Joanna studied the barometer, tapped it at intervals during the day. It was not very menacing. She stopped worrying about a storm. There was a big ironing to do, and while she ironed she remembered how the harbor had looked in the torch-light last night, and the thick shimmer of the stars overhead. She knew that her mind would move inevitably to the later part of the evening, and this time she didn't steer it firmly in the other direction. There was no harm in knowing that Dennis Garland's eyes had followed her; the time was past when a woman was dishonored by the admiration of a man who was not her husband. Dennis was fine, and good, he was never anything but courteous. And there was a small, secret warmth in the knowledge that he admired her.