The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel (28 page)

“Certainly not. We have no idea where Ebbin is,” she said lightly, removing her hat and shaking her hair.

He frowned at this disappointing answer. “You don’t give up easily, I’ll give you that.” Hettie glided by and caught up with Ida. Young Fred skipped down the hill after them, Simon and his grandfather following behind. At the bridge over the causeway on the Shore Road, Ida took her leave. She was off to care for her sister, Franny, suffering from that spring cold they hoped didn’t turn into the pneumonia. She reminded Hettie to take the roast lamb out of the oven.

Thin clouds swept the sky and a steady southwest wind rippled a carpet of waves toward them—one after another, rushing in, breaking in short bursts on the rocky beach. Young Fred was throwing stones at a submerged log.
Ploosh!
he shrieked each time. Ploosh! A fat grandfather gull on a boulder gave him a withering look. Hettie leaned out on the bridge railing.

“C’mon, girl. I hate it when you sulk. Let’s see to that lamb, eh?” Duncan said, linking his arm in Hettie’s.

A message, Simon thought. A message would settle things.

V
OR
M
OODY
TOLD
Simon that Charlotte fetched the Bromleys’ mail every day at
3
:
45
. “Got your eye on her, eh?” he said, shooting envelopes into people’s boxes. “She’d be enough of a girl for any young feller.”

Simon rolled his eyes.

“See this?” Vor said, holding up a thin envelope. “Another Kraut letter for Avon Heist. Come once a week.”

“A
Kraut
letter? Let’s see it.”

“Can’t,” Vor said, shaking his head. “Against the law. Postmarked England, but this same feller,” he stabbed at the letter with a crooked forefinger, “used to write to him from Berlin. I know the handwriting.” He leaned across the counter. His skin shone through thin strands of red hair combed across his scalp. “Sending messages,” he whispered.

“Messages? It’s just a
letter
. From England.”

“Exactly. Whoops. Here comes your girl. Don’t worry, I won’t spill the beans.”

Simon rolled his eyes again. Then, sure enough, Charlotte trundled into the post office. Her smile made Simon forget to tell Vor she wasn’t his girl and gave him the courage to ask if he could walk a ways with her. She happily agreed; she was planning a walk anyway. They took the Shore Road toward Mader’s Cove. Along the way, he pointed out houses—Chandlers, Zincks, Fredas, Reddens, Clothiers and Hilchies—all the while trying to frame what he wanted to say. He wished he was taller than her instead of the other way around, but after a while he didn’t really care, so easy was their conversation. She wanted to know about each family and about the tides and the islands. As they rounded the road into Mader’s Cove, she dug into a little purse dangling from a crocheted string around her wrist and offered him a peppermint.

He took it and asked what London was like. Dirty, crowded and cold, she told him. What she wanted was to go back to her father, but her mother’s people disapproved of him. He’d moved to Clonakilty, in the south of Ireland, where there were palm trees, he told her, and where he’d be better appreciated. He’d had an unlucky life, she said, and she missed him.

Simon told her he missed his father, too. They walked awhile in the silence of that bond, sucking on their mints. The air was heavy with the threat of rain. Fat drops plopped on the glassy harbor as they reached Philip’s boatyard. Simon pointed to the boat sheds, big as barns, and suggested they wait it out. It was the time of day when Philip usually said, “Have a pint or two, don’t mind if I do,” and headed for the tavern. They went down the steps to the wharf and ducked in a side door of the first shed.

From there they watched rain splash the wharf. The smell of creosote and oily rags, damp sawdust and salt-crusted coils of hemp rope mingled with the tang of salt air and fresh spring rain blowing in, and the sweet rose scent of her beside him. She had a little shiver, and he found an oil lamp among the coffee-stained papers and pencil stubs on Philip’s desk. He lit it for warmth and set it on a roughhewn bench next to them. Rain bounced harder and then great sheets of it swept through the cove and across the deck of the
Elsie
at her mooring.

In the dark reaches of the connecting shed loomed the great black hull of the
Lauralee
, up on a cradle, her rudder straight, her heavy keel exposed, her timbers thick and spongy with fatigue. “Her time’s about up,” Philip had said when they’d had her hauled. “Well past her prime. Wallace wants to put an engine into her, but she won’t do with it. Sits heavy in the water as it is. She’s had near enough, Simon Peter.” Philip took long, thoughtful draws on his pipe. “I can hold off for a while, but come spring, she’ll have to go or go back in the water or be taken down to her ribs. I need this cradle.”

“Good thing these old sheds were nearby,” Charlotte said, turning around for the first time. “Is that a boat down there?”

“Yep, our boat. The
Lauralee
. My dad’s her skipper.” He led Charlotte through to the next shed and rolled the sliding door at the far end back a foot or two to let in some light. Charlotte tipped her head back, taking her in. He did as well and saw the boat anew through Charlotte’s eyes. Her lines weren’t quite as graceful up on the cradle as he’d thought. Her stern was maybe a little too squared off and her beam a little too broad for the sharp clipper bow. He considered explaining that the long counterstern hadn’t been around when she was built. Instead, he said, “She’s good in a heavy sea,” which was true.

Charlotte pulled off a glove and rested her hand on the thick rudder. It was a gesture Simon appreciated. “She’s grand,” she said.

“Named
Lauralee
for my grandmother. She died before I was born.” He didn’t want to break the moment, but death had conveniently entered in, and it was now or never. “Say, um, speaking of the dead, I was wondering . . . you know how you—those messages you get?”

She dropped her hand. “What?”

“I was just wondering what it’s like is all.” He feigned nonchalance, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No you
weren’t.
It’s your uncle, isn’t it? Oh, I should have known.”

“No!” Simon protested. “I, I wasn’t after a message!”

She raced to the shed door, then whirled around to face him. “I don’t get messages!” she cried. “People think I do, but I
don’t!
”

He saw that her jaw was trembling and her pale gray eyes were full. “Don’t,” he said, coming toward her. “Don’t cry.” But she did cry, shoulders shuddering, nose dripping. “Get away from me. I’m wretched. I was sent over here because my aunt in London didn’t want me around, never did.”

“No,” he said softly. “No.” He reached up because he couldn’t help it, and her wet cheek filled his palm with its soft warmth. She slapped his hand away.

“Don’t! People think I have a gift. I tried not to, but they begged me and I, I . . . and more people came, banging on the door, everyone wanting a message. But I don’t have a gift!”

“But why’d they come after you like that?”

“Because it happened
once
!
One time! And word got out. But after that . . . I lied. To make people feel better, but I lied all the same. There,” she said with a choking sigh, “now you know.” And she was out the door.

He stood stupefied, then raced after her. Rain pelted his face. “
I
lied!” he shouted. “I did want a message!” She stopped and turned around. “I wanted a message because my mother thinks he’s still alive. You only lied to help people
. I
lied to get something.”

Her expression was lost to him in the rain, but she stood where she was. “Please,” he said, “come back.”

He led her back to the shed and into Philip’s office. Something about the way she stood there, dumbly staring at her shoes and shivering with her hands at her sides, sent a calm through him. He wiped his hands on a rag and shoved some coal into the little stove and checked the kettle for water. He found a mug on a shelf and another on its hook and the tea in the battered tea tin. He shook out her cape and draped Philip’s old sweater over her shoulders. His every action was deliberate. It was as if the explosion of emotion had cleared the air and now things could begin again in a real way. He pointed to a chair, and she sat down and held her hands toward the fire that was coming up now, spreading warmth. He made the tea, and she wrapped her hands around the mug. Not a word passed between them.

He stood by the grimy window. The wind and the incoming tide kicked up waves that slapped against each other and flung spray against the wharf. The squall had the
Elsie
swinging at her mooring. In this weather Philip wouldn’t be coming back from the tavern any time soon. He could hear Charlotte’s breath settle from ragged gulps into a steady rhythm. After a bit he said, “I’m really sorry. Guess I’m not a very good liar. I just wanted . . .”

“Don’t be,” she said, staring dully into the fire. “It’s not easy being a good liar or not good being easy at it. Or I don’t know what I mean.”

“I don’t either, but that’s okay.” He turned to face her. “Start over?”

“I’d like that,” she murmured, staring at her tea. A hint of dimples appeared. She set her mug down and pulled the sweater tighter. “Aunt says I’m too clever for my own good.”

“No you’re not. She says stuff like that about everyone.” He sat down in Philip’s chair. “She says my grandfather is a pacifist and that’s just not true. He’s just against this war is all.”

“Yes, she did say that last night at supper. She also said your uncle and your mother were like twins.”

“Well, yeah. That is true.” Simon asked what else she’d said about him.

Charlotte thought for a moment. “That he was handsome, and, um, easy, and a bit of a vagabond, but everyone loved him.”

“His body was never found, you know. That’s why my mother thinks he’s alive.”

“Maybe he is,” Charlotte said. A burst of rain pelted the window.

Simon took a good long look at her, but then just shook his head and swiveled his chair around. “Wish I was out in this. It’d be fun.”

“On a boat?”

“Well, yeah. You get away from everything on a boat. Plus you’re just in it, the weather, I mean. I’m headed out to the Banks this summer, I think. If I can.”

“To the what? The bank? You’re going to—”

“The
Banks
. I forgot you just got here.” He explained that the Banks were ocean plateaus where the water was shallow. “Well, not shallow exactly, like two hundred feet deep, but shallow compared to the rest of the ocean. That’s where the cod are and that’s why schooners that fish there are called salt bankers. Salt cod, you know . . .”

“Oh, salt cod, money in the bank,” she said with a smile.

“What? Oh, I get it.”

“A silly joke. Will you go out there on the
Lauralee
?”

“No, no. She’s not outfitted for fishing. She’s a coastal trader. My grandfather was the captain of a salt banker, but he gave it up to take care of my father after his mother died. My grandfather wouldn’t let my father go out there either after that, not to the Banks. Not fishing.”

“Why?”

“Because he . . . I don’t know. Because he likes to have his say over everything. Doesn’t matter because I’m going.”

“Won’t he stop you?”

“He can try,” Simon said, “but I’ll be fourteen in June.”

The sun was squeaking through the heavy clouds by then and the rain had stopped. Charlotte said she’d better be going. He asked if she’d like to go sailing sometime. He’d find a boat. She was game, she said. Anytime.

Outside, the damp air was laden with a heavy smell of low tide. She took a long, deep breath. “I can tell you about that one time, if you like.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” And without further hesitation she told him about the Yardley-
Ransoms, neighbors in London, and how their son Jack was killed at the Somme, and Mrs. Yardley-Ransom was shut up in her room for weeks. And how one day Charlotte heard some words clear as a bell in Jack’s voice. It happened three times in a row. She told Mr. Yardley-Ransom, and he told his wife, and after that she came downstairs for the first time. “She kissed me and hugged me,” Charlotte said in wistful conclusion, “as I had never been hugged before or since.”

Everything about the story struck Simon as true and terribly sad. After a moment he asked, “What’d he say, this Jack?”

“He said, ‘I’m lucky.’ ”

“Lucky,” Simon repeated, incredulous. “That was it?
Lucky
?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied, as if lucky was a perfectly reasonable thing for a dead man to say. “Lucky to be out of the war, maybe.”

“But he was
dead
.”

“I know.” She walked a ways down the wharf and looked down at the float. Philip’s rowboat was glistening with raindrops and half full of water. Simon pointed to a starfish clinging to a piling above it. “Will it survive without water?” Charlotte asked. He assured her it would. The starfish could climb down to the water if need be, but the tide would come in again. Charlotte bent down to look more closely at the starfish, now slowly stretching one foot out and hunching another in to move down the wet piling. “They had another son, Edmund,” she sighed, “with this contraption holding his face together. That’s how he came back in
1915
. People looked away. He and I used to sit together in their garden . . . I’d sometimes talk for him when we were together and he’d nod yes or no for his end of the conversation.” She lowered her eyes and could not go on.