High Tide at Noon (13 page)

“Yep. Helped clean up Brigport. We stove the kitchen all to hell.” His grin broadened. “I almost missed it, though—I went out for a while.”

“What'll you do if Neddie ever comes in and catches you?”

“He won't, because we've got that all figured out,” he said candidly.

“You're shameless, Hugo.”

“But I have fun.” He winked, and picked up his pails again.

Joanna, following the path along the top of the high bank, looked out at the glittering sea stretching endlessly toward the east. A boat moved out past a craggy point, and a cloud of gulls dipped down in its wake.

The whole world shone and was fragrant. The path lay before her, streaked with cold shadows and yellow sunlight. On her right hand tall dark trees had their precarious foothold among the rocks. Far below them the water curled itself in flashing eddies, and the seaweed moved languorously with the tide. A bluejay swooped noisily across the path before Joanna, and was lost in the woods on the hillside that rose with its lichened boulders, its spruces, and its little sun-filled glades on the other side of the path. The bird was the color of a jewel, the sea was full of diamonds, the day itself had a gemlike radiance. This is a day to be happy in, she thought, and remembered her mother singing, “Oh, the sunshine, blessed sunshine,” in the kitchen at breakfast time. Her serene content had brought a lump into Joanna's throat, and it was difficult for her to swallow her toast.

When she reached the clearing at the Eastern End, she went forward to the old weathered fence. The gray wood was warm under her hands.

The land was smooth here where Joanna stood, rolling down from the woods into a narrow grassy field that touched the water on both sides. Seaward, the shore was a mass of tawny, jumbled rock, fringed by scrub spruces, juniper and bay. Northward, from a tranquil, sheltered cove, one looked across the choppy blue-green sound at Brigport. Joanna paused long at the gate to gaze over the peacock sea. Isle au Haut rose from the horizon like an enchanted mountain, and beyond the white shores of Vinalhaven the blue Camden hills lay drowsing against the sky.

Her glance came back to the cove. Maurice and Jake were out to haul, and with the younger children in school, Mateel would be alone. She opened the gate and went in. An old russet spaniel, whose curls were faded and tangled, waddled fatly up the path toward her. She patted him absently, and went on to the shabby house, as unkempt and desolate as the fish houses huddled on the bank of the cove.

What was there to say to Mateel? It was no good to tell her the family would be pleased, because they wouldn't be . . . . She knocked firmly on the door.

After a moment that seemed an age, Mateel opened it. Two things Joanna noticed at once: the thick lashes were wet and stuck together, and her nose was pink. But she smiled, and there was only the ghost of a quaver in her voice.

“ 'Allo, Joanna! Come in!”

“Hello,” said Joanna briefly, and lied. “I was just walking across to the Head—I thought you might give me a drink of water.” She followed Mateel into the shabby dark kitchen, with its disreputable old stove and Jake's long underwear hanging over the oven door to air. There was a smell of freshly ironed clothes in the warm room; a mammoth ironing hung on lines from wall to wall, and over the backs of the mismated chairs.

“Sit down, Joanna,” Mateel said with nervous eagerness. “A drink of water? ‘Ow about some milk, maybe? It's nice and cold.”

“Water will be all right.”

Mateel went into the pantry and Joanna glanced at the stove, blacked and polished with very evident energy. The teakettle was scoured to brightness. It made her feel better. She said aloud, “The last time I was here, Maurice was teaching me how to play the fiddle. Remember?”

Mateel's smile was quick and sweet. As she came forward through a shaft of sunlight, carrying a glass, there were little golden flecks dancing in her eyes. “Oh, yes! You were little then, with pigtails. What a squeak you made! An' Owen came in, an'—what did'e say, that made you so mad?”

“He said, ‘Good God, who's killing that poor cat?' “Their laughter chimed together. Joanna thought: and afterwards Father said he'd trim us up with a lath if we came down here again. Jake was rum­running then, and drunk when he wasn't doing that.

Suddenly they were silent. Mateel's small, pointed face went white and full of dread, as if she had forgotten herself for an instant and then remembered with renewed terror. Her hands began to twist nervously. She turned back to the ironing board on the table and began to smooth out a boy's shirt.

It was those frightened hands that undid Joanna. They were short and brown and sturdy, like Mateel herself; they'd carried water and split kindling and knit trapheads, and rowed, and cleaned fish. All her life Mateel had been doing things with those hands. And now, like Mateel, they were scared and helpless . . . . Hell, are you getting sorry for people again? Joanna asked herself savagely. Are you getting sorry for them, after the mess they've made of things with their own foolishness?

But it didn't do any good to swear at herself, because for a dreadfully realistic moment she saw the mountain that loomed before Mateel—a mountain that seemed impossible to climb. She had a crazy impulse to put her arm around the older girl, and tell her she
could
climb that mountain, and not to be afraid.

You were foolish, she said silently to Mated's back. And I wish Charles hadn't fallen in love with you. I'm afraid of what happens to this kind of marriage. I don't want you for a sister, but I can't bear to see anything terrified.

She stood up and walked over to the table. She was much taller than Mateel, she felt like a giant as the other girl looked up at her with soft and anxious eyes.

“Mateel,” she said gently. “I know what's troubling you. Charles told me.”

Light burned up in a quick golden flame in Mateel's eyes at the sound of Charles' name. Then her lashes lowered.

“Will it be easy for you to get away?” Joanna asked doubtfully.

Mateel nodded. “I t'ink so. My aunt, she wrote to me to visit 'er, and my fadder said I could go, any time.” There was sudden fiery color in her cheeks. Joanna sighed. She felt old and tired.

“Joanna—”

Those hands were frightened again. Joanna said, “What is it?”

“Joanna, do they 'ate me so much—your family?”

“They don't hate you at all,” said Joanna briskly. “Of course, they'll be surprised and a little upset at first, but don't worry.” She hesitated, seeing her mother's eyes, her father's locked and inexorable face. “Besides,” she added awkwardly, “you love Charles, don't you?”

Again the golden flame, the soft quivering mouth, the sudden radiance that transfigured the small anxious face. And Joanna knew the truth, beyond a doubt. She didn't wait for Mateel's husky reply. She said quickly, “I'd better start for home—it's almost noon.”

Mateel followed her to the door. “I'll never forget ‘ow good you are, Joanna.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do but smile and escape. When the door shut behind her, Joanna had to hold her feet from running toward the gate. She welcomed the cool bright air on her face; the past half-hour in the small stuffy kitchen had been worse than she'd anticipated.

As she went through the gate, she looked up at the tall spruces against the blown blue and white sky, and felt a little warm surge of kinship; a desire to l y her hands against their rough bark and feel their comforting solidity.

She knew, with a faint joyful stirring deep in her heart, that no matter what happened in the next week, no matter what befell them all in the coming years, the Island would never fail her.

So it didn't really matter what people did, she thought in a moment of strange impersonality. After everything was said and done, the foolish things, the hateful things—the good ones, too - and you'd almost forgotten how they were said and done, the Island would remain.

W
HEN
C
HARLES LEFT
for the mainland the next morning, it caused no comment at home or at the harbor. The Island men went often across the bay in their own boats, taking with them the lobsters they had carred, instead of selling to Pete Grant; the dealers on the mainland paid three cents more a pound for carred lobsters, and that mounted up, especially if a man had nine or ten hundred-pound crates.

So no one thought it was strange about Charles, least of all the family. Sudden, perhaps, but not strange. Owen talked about going with him. He talked about it long enough to bring a desperate gleam into Charles' eyes, and abandoned the idea just as Joanna was beginning to wonder if she could get through the next twenty-four hours without screaming.

At last Donna had packed a clean white shirt, his good trousers and sweater, and his shaving things. Charles put on his heavy jacket, picked up his oilskins, and was ready to go.

“See a good movie for me, Charles,” his mother said. He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. His eyes met Joanna's, and she called up a gay young grin.

“Charles, don't hug so hard!” Donna was flushed and laughing. “After all, you'll be back in a day or so—you're not leaving forever!”

Isn't he? thought Joanna. Charles let Donna go, and went quickly toward the door. Scarcely knowing how or why, Joanna was there before him. She put her hand on his arm and lifted her face to him.

“If you're handing those things out—” she began gaily. He bent his dark head and kissed her; for an instant her eyes looked deeply into his, then she stepped back and opened the door for him. “So long, and take care of yourself.”

“Cripes almighty, he'll be back tomorrow!” Owen called from the other room. “You act like he was leaving home for good!”

“Oh, dry up!” said Joanna rudely, and then Charles was gone.

In a little while she stood by the kitchen window to watch the
Sea-Gypsy
head through the harbor mouth, driving a straight, unswerving course through the gray-green, foamy surge, and point her glistening white bow toward the invisible mainland beyond the western end of Brigport.

Later she saw the
Aurora B
. come plunging around the point, dipping her nose; it was choppy today, and the sky was a mass of scudding broken cloud. Soon the fish houses hid the mailboat, except for her masts; Joanna's eyes were drawn inevitably to the foot of the meadow, as if they must have known what they would see. It was Mateel, following the road instead of the path through the sodden marsh. There was something about the small figure, struggling with the big suitcase that banged against her knees, that caught at Joanna's heart. What a way to go to your own wedding! she thought with mingled pity and contempt.

Mateel, in her best coat, picked her way among the puddles, and Joanna turned away from the window, her black brows drawn. Donna looked up from her mending.

“Joanna, you could have gone with Charles, just as well as not! Why didn't you say something about it?” Her eyes were affectionate and worried on the girl's face. “It would have made a nice trip for you.”

“There's nothing on the mainland I want to see.” Joanna threw the words over her shoulder as she left the room. “I'm going up and straighten out my bookcase.”

Her bookcase didn't need straightening, but she would take any way of escape, no matter how trivial, from the sight of her mother's unclouded calm.

The day crawled endlessly by, the sea roared into Goose Cove and hammered with a continuous hollow thunder around the point. The wind blew; it blew around the Bennett house when the harbor lay in windless tranquillity, but today there was no escaping from the wind, wherever you went. Perhaps in the deepest heart of the woods there was silence. But in the silence, you could hear your thoughts as well as think them. Joanna didn't want silence.

There was once, in the evening, when she almost told. Supper was over, and the lamplight streamed across Stephen's paper, Donna's book, and on Owen's adventure magazine as he lay on the couch. Philip had gone out to the shop, and Joanna, the dishes wiped and put away, followed him. Crossing the dooryard in the raw windy darkness, she knew the whole story was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps Philip could make things seem a little better, a little more hopeful. His way was so calm and thoughtful and unhurried.

But on the threshold of the shop, with the lantern's light gleaming on the rows of bright-colored buoys, and the fire crackling, and Philip looking up absently from his notebook, the words failed on her lips. What if Philip didn't know? He
must
know. Philip was closest to Charles, how could he help not knowing? She heard herself saying casually, “Working on your log?”

“Mmm . . . know when we all made the most this winter? That week when Moody from Port George and that buyer from Friendship bucked each other till they ran the price up to seventy-five.” Philip's blue eyes held a reminiscent twinkle. “We were all kings for a while around here.”

Joanna fingered a snippet of twine and Philip squinted keenly at her through his pipe smoke.

“Something on your mind?”

“Nope,” she said lightly. “Just taking a walk around the estate. Is it going to blow tomorrow?”

“Blow like hell till high water,” murmured Philip. He was already absorbed again in his mathematics. Joanna went back to the house, with the salt wind tearing at her through the night.

Philip was right. The wind died down after high water. Sunshine broke through the clouds and lighted the gray water with a pale steely gleam. There was still a creamy surge around the ledges, for the deep swell came from the ocean's very heart and not from the wind. But it wasn't too rough for Charles to come home. He was like a gull in his savage kinship with both sea and gale.

There was too much for Joanna to do in the house, and she couldn't get out, she couldn't escape from the too-close walls of the house and walk along the grim west side, between water and woods. She watched for Charles; each time she went by the window she expected to see the boat come past the end of Brigport. But when she looked up suddenly and saw Charles and Mateel coming through the gate, she knew an instant of horrible astonishment. They were here.