At the Water's Edge (8 page)

“Excuse me, Mrs. Pennypacker,” said Anna, appearing at my side.

My mother's name again. I shot Ellis a look, but he was watching as Anna slid a small bowl of steaming porridge in front of me, along with a cup of creamy milk.

“I'll be right back with your tea,” she said.

“Well, would you look at that,” said Hank. “Virgin porridge. Aren't you special.”

I stared at it. “I don't think I can eat. My stomach's still iffy.”

“You have to,” said Ellis. “You're thin as a rail.”

“Please. That's how you like me,” I said.

“Yes, but if you get too thin your face will suffer.”

I looked up, horrified, wondering if he was saying it already had. I was still trying to decipher his expression when Anna returned with a cup of tea.

“I brought a wee bit of sugar, ma'am,” she said, setting it in front of me. There were two cubes on the edge of the saucer.

Hank glanced up from his map. “Her tea's stronger, too. I sense favoritism.”

“And rightly so,” said Ellis. “She needs it.”

The back of my throat tightened. So much for my being “positively radiant.” I picked up the milk to pour on my porridge.

Anna sucked her breath through her teeth, and I halted with the bowl in midair.

“If you don't mind my saying, ma'am, that's not the best way of going about that. Pouring the milk all over it,” she tutted. “It's just not right.”

“Don't you have something else?” Ellis said testily. “Ham? Eggs? A steak? My wife is poorly. She needs protein.”

Anna drew her shoulders back. “We do not, Mr. Pennypacker. Those particular items are rationed, and we weren't expecting guests. And for your information, milk and sugar are rationed as well—I only brought them out because I thought Mrs. Pennypacker could use a little perking up, what with her motion sickness and all.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That's very kind of you.”

“Fine. Never mind,” said Ellis, pulling the logbook toward him. When she didn't leave, he threw her an irritated glance and flicked the backs of his fingers toward her. “I said that's all.”

She folded her arms and glowered at him. “No, you did not. You said ‘Never mind.' And I don't suppose you've given your ration books to Angus.”

“No,” said Ellis, without looking at her.

“Oh, aye,” she replied on an intake of breath. “Well, I can't do any better for you until you do, and I'll have you know it's a criminal offense to waste food, so get that down you or I'll be forced to call the warden.” She lifted her chin and sailed around the bar and through to the back.

Ellis looked agog at Hank. Then he broke into giggles.

“I told you she wasn't all there,” he said.

Hank nodded. “She does seem a few sandwiches short.”

“You needn't have been so rude,” I said. “She's very nice, and she was about to show me, if you hadn't interrupted.”

Ellis looked stunned. “Show you what? How to eat porridge? It's
porridge
. You eat it.”

“Oh, never mind,” I said.

Ellis stared at me. “Shall I call her back?”

“No. I'm fine,” I said. “But perhaps you can explain why, exactly, she thinks I'm my mother?”

Ellis laughed, and Hank nearly spat tea out of his nose.

“You're not your mother—thank God,” said Ellis, after they'd collected themselves. “But I did sign us in using your maiden name.”

“And why is that?”

“My father wasn't terrifically popular around here after the
Daily Mail
fiasco. But don't worry. When we find the monster, we'll come clean.” He held his hands up and framed an imaginary headline: “Son of Colonel Whitney Hyde Catches Loch Ness Monster; Hailed as Hero.”

“Say, Hero, think we can get back to work?” said Hank, stuffing his napkin under the edge of his plate. He circled an area on the map with his finger. “Since this area is the epicenter of the sightings, I think we should start at Temple Pier, then either walk or row to the…”

As Hank prattled on, I considered the two bowls in front of me. If you didn't put the milk in the porridge, surely you didn't put the porridge in the milk? I dipped my spoon in the porridge, looked at the bowl of milk, felt stupid, and gave up.

I put one of the sugar cubes on my teaspoon and lowered it slowly into the cup, watching the brown seep upward, evenly, irrevocably.

H
ank and Ellis seemed almost relieved when I told them I wasn't going to join them. I would have been offended if I didn't know I couldn't walk straight.

They gathered their things and left in a whirlwind of activity. I hadn't seen Ellis this energized since the summer I'd met him. At the last second, Hank leaned over the table, grabbed his porridge, and gamely chomped it down. Then he ate Ellis's as well, saying he wasn't keen on “being frog-marched to the clink, at least not over a slab of drawer porridge.” Ellis kissed my cheek and implored me to eat my own porridge in whatever fashion I saw fit, and to make sure the staff looked after me. And then they were gone.

I had planned on asking Anna to draw me a bath, but after threatening to call the warden she never returned. I began to think she'd left the building.

I found my way up the stairs, grasping the rail and stopping several times. At one point I thought I was going to fall backward, and sat on the step until it passed.

There was a black line painted around the inside of the bathtub,
about five inches up, which I assumed was a guide to how deep the water should be, but no matter what the temperature of the water, there wouldn't be enough to warm a person up. I decided it was a suggestion rather than a rule, put in the rubber plug, and turned the taps on full. I left them running while I went to my room.

When I returned and tried to step into the bath, I discovered that the water coming out of both faucets was icy.

By the time I got my clothes back on and rushed down to the grate, my teeth were chattering.

The fire gave off a fearsome heat, and I couldn't seem to find the right distance from it—too close, and my shins and cheeks stung, too far and I got chilled through. At one point, my toes were burning and my heels were freezing all at the same time. I was cold, dizzy, queasy, and filthy. It was hard to imagine being more miserable.

There was a newspaper on the low table, but when I tried to read, the words swam on the page. I gave up almost immediately, left it open on my lap, and gazed into the fire. Its movement masked that of my eyes, and was the most helpful thing yet in making me feel steady.

The chimney stones were charred, and the fire, part coal and part mysterious other, hissed and cracked and occasionally let off an unlikely whistle. As I watched, a glowing red ember shot out, landed on the carpet, and immediately turned black. A pair of brown utility shoes, thick wool socks, and reddened shins appeared right where it had landed.

Anna was standing beside me, holding a plate and a steaming cup. She put them on the table in front of me.

“I couldn't help but notice you didn't eat your porridge, probably on account of not knowing how.” She glanced behind her and added, “I slipped a wee dram into the tea. I thought it might help, as I also couldn't help but notice that you're still a bit wobbly.”

The plate held a coddled egg and a few slices of golden fried potato. Moments before, my stomach had been doing flips, but I was suddenly ravenous.

“But I thought eggs were rationed?” I said, glancing up.

“Aye, and butter, too, but we've hens and a cow at the croft. I nipped back and told Mhàthair—that's my mother—that you were feeling poorly, and she said to give you this. She's also the midwife, so she knows such things. She says you're to start with the tea.”

“Thank you. That's very kind. Please send her my regards.”

Anna lingered, and then said, “Is it really the monster your husband is after? My cousin Donald's seen it, you know.”

I looked up. “He has?”

“Aye, and his parents, too,” she said, nodding gravely. “My Aunt Aldie and Uncle John were driving home from Inverness when they thought they saw a bunch of ducks fighting in the water near Abriachan, but when they got closer they realized it was an animal—a black beast the size of a whale—rolling, and plunging, and generally causing a right
stramash
.” She illustrated with her hands.

“What happened then?”

“Nothing,” she said simply. “It swam off.”

“And your cousin?”

She shrugged. “There's not much to tell. He was a fisherman. Something happened one day when he was out on the loch, and he hasn't set foot on a boat since. And neither will he discuss it.”

“What about your aunt? Do you think your aunt will discuss it?”

“I should think she'd blather your ear off, given the opportunity. Why don't you invite her for a
strupag
? And Mrs. Pennypacker? You were on the right track. You put the porridge on the spoon and then you dip the spoon in the milk. It keeps the porridge hot.”

“I'm sorry I didn't eat it,” I said. “Is it really a criminal offense to waste food?”

“Aye, several years since. But don't worry, the milk will go into the soup, and your porridge went into the drawer. Conall was that pleased to lick the bowl he wagged his tail. Do you think you'll be needing anything else? Only I need to get back to the croft. You might not think there's much to do in January, but you'd be wrong. There's clearing stones, cutting turnip for the sheep, the milking, oh, it goes on and on…” She stared into the distance and sighed.

“There's just one thing,” I said. “I'd love to have a bath, but there's no hot water.”

“There will be in about twenty minutes. I heard you banging around up there, so I lit the boiler. I'll take up some Lux flakes as well. You're only supposed to run the bath up to the line, but I think maybe this once you might run it deeper.”

I couldn't take offense—she'd seen me moments after I'd quite literally fallen out of bed.

“I'm off then. Meg will be back from the sawmill around four. Now get that down you,” she said, nodding authoritatively. “I've seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow, and if Mhàthair hears you didn't finish up that tea, it's the castor oil she'll be sending next.”

Although the tea itself tasted like boiled twigs—I supposed it was ersatz—the “wee dram” helped so much that after my bath I lay down to have a rest. I was surprised to find myself drifting off, because I was excited. I couldn't wait to tell Ellis about Anna's relatives.

Several hours later, I floated out of my nap to the buzz of conversation and laughter rising from the main floor. I was surprised by the number of voices, since I knew we were the only staying guests, and decided the inn must also be a pub. I lit the candle, which Anna had replaced, and looked at my watch. It was evening, and I was hungry again. I hadn't had a proper meal since I left the States.

You're thin as a rail
, Ellis had said.

I've seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow
, Anna had said.

I let my hands explore my belly—the hipbones that protruded sharply, the concave area between, the rib cage that loomed above.

Oh, Madeline. We really have to do something
, my mother had said.

I was twelve and at first had no idea what she was talking about. I'd stepped out from behind the striped canvas of the changing tent on the beach at Bar Harbor and was breathless at the deep blue of the sky and even deeper blue of the ocean, at the laughter and shrieking of the children who played at the edges of the lapping surf, at
the seagulls swooping and diving. I turned, alarmed at her tone. She shook her head sadly, but her eyes were hard. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she surveyed the parts of me that made me most self-conscious. They were the parts that were filling out but were not yet curvy. I was merely pudgy. I'd never felt a deeper shame in my life.

She'd have approved now, I thought, stretching my legs out. With my ankles and knees touching, my thighs never met. And then I thought, No, she wouldn't. No matter what I did or who I became, she would never have approved.

Hank's and Ellis's rooms were empty, so I headed downstairs. I assumed they'd returned, discovered I was asleep, and gone down for drinks. I was eager to tell them what I'd learned, sure they'd be pleased with me. Perhaps with the right type of persuasion, even Cousin Donald would tell his story.

As I stepped out of the shadow at the bottom of the stairwell, everyone fell silent. Hank and Ellis were nowhere to be seen, and other than Meg, I was the only woman in the room.

There were a dozen or so burly young men wearing khaki uniforms sitting at the tables, and about six older men in civilian clothes perched on stools at the bar. Every one of them was looking at me.

I girded myself, feeling the men's eyes upon me, and hoping they wouldn't think I was drunk as I made my way to the couch. Conall stared from his place by the hearth. He didn't raise his head, but his eyes darted and his whiskered brows twitched as I approached. At the end, when I sank onto the couch, I realized I'd only been slightly offbalance. I further realized that I had taken the stairs without incident, and then, with some alarm, that what I had thought was ersatz tea was almost certainly medicinal. While I wasn't happy about being dosed without my consent, I couldn't deny it had helped.

Meg was behind the bar, her hair carefully arranged in a cascade of red curls. I remembered the bits of rag tied in her hair the night
before, and wondered if I could figure out how to do that. My own hair, still damp from my bath, was back under a turban.

Her periwinkle dress hugged her figure, and her lips and fingernails were scarlet. It was hard to believe she worked at a sawmill. She looked like a redheaded Hedy Lamarr. If she was at all open to Hank's advances, she didn't stand a chance. Hank would never be serious about a barmaid. He was so slippery he could barely bring himself to be serious about Violet. I had to find a moment to warn Hank off, and wished I'd said something that very first night.

“Can I get you something, Mrs. Pennypacker?” she called over. “A half pint? Or perhaps a sherry?”

“Nothing right now, thank you,” I said, and at the sound of my voice the men exchanged glances. I didn't blame them—surely they were wondering how and why an American woman had materialized in their midst. A hot flush rose to my cheeks.

A young man sitting at a table with a glass of beer called out in an accent as flat and un-Scottish as my own, “Canadian or American?” and I found myself staring back with equal surprise.

Before I could answer, the front door opened and an elderly man came in, leaning on a walking stick.

He said to the room in general, “There's rain in it today.”

“Aye, Donnie, that there is,” said Meg from behind the bar. “A hauf and a hauf, is it?”

“Just a pint of heavy.” He made his way to the last empty barstool.

She pulled a glass from beneath the counter and held it under a beer spigot. “There's game pie tonight,” she said, “so you can keep your ration book in your pocket.”

“Oh, that's grand, Meg,” he said. He began to struggle out of his coat.

“Can I give you a hand?” she said, coming around to help.

“I'm in need of one, Meg, surely I am,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. His empty sleeve was pinned up against his shirt. As Meg took his coat away, he climbed onto the stool. He raised his glass and turned toward the room.
“Slàinte!”
he said.

“Slàinte!”
Everyone, young and old, lifted his glass.

At that moment, Ellis and Hank burst through the door, cheeks ruddy with the cold, coats and hats wet.

“—so if the ad runs on Friday,” Ellis said, “we could potentially start getting responses on Tuesday. Meanwhile, we can revisit…the…” His voice petered out when he realized he was the center of attention.

Hank let his hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers like a cowboy ready to draw. Behind the bar, Meg picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the counter. Our black-bearded landlord appeared in the doorway that led to the back, wearing a heavy ribbed sweater in dark olive.

After a silence that seemed interminable, Old Donnie set his glass down and slid off his stool. He picked up his stick and hobbled slowly over.

Tap, tap, tap, tap
.

He stopped directly in front of Ellis. He was shorter by a whole head. He looked Ellis up and then down, and then up again, the skin of his neck stretching like a turtle's as he strained to see Ellis's face.

“You favor your father,” he finally said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Ellis, draining of color.

“The monster hunter. From 'thirty-four. I'm not that addled yet.” The broken capillaries in his face darkened. A fleck of spittle flew from his lips.

Meg's eyebrows darted up, and she glanced at Ellis. Then she resumed wiping the counter.

“Now Donnie,” she said. “Come take a seat and I'll get your pie.”

He ignored her. “I suppose it's the monster you're after, is it? Or are you going to float a balloon and take a snapshot like your old man?”

Ellis's face went from pale to purple in a split second.

The old man spun and hurried toward his coat, his gnarled stick banging on the flagstones. “I'll no be staying where this
bastart
is.”

“Did he just say what I think he did?” Ellis said. “Did he just call me a bastard?”

“If he wasn't a cripple, I'd knock his block off,” said Hank.

“Your mammie's his wife, then, is she?” said Old Donnie. “Only rumor has it he was an awful one for the
houghmagandy
.”

“Now, Donnie,” Meg said, sharply this time. “There's no call for that. Come have your pie.”

“You'll excuse the language, but there's no other way to get to it,” the old man said indignantly. “The pathetic
creutair
, trying to make
strìopaichean
of honest girls up at the Big House, and not a shred of decency. And I don't suppose anyone will help me with my coat.” This last was delivered as a statement, although he set his stick against the bar and straightened up, waiting.