“You look marvellous yourself.” Celia lit a fresh cigarette from the stub and crushed the old one out in an overflowing ashtray. She had never been a chain-smoker before, either.
“Thank you.” I looked terrible and I knew it. I’d had no sleep last night and little for the past several nights. The task of putting the house in fit order for strangers to walk into and begin living there had almost been beyond me. In the end, we had piled all personal effects into one room and locked the door. I had left a welcoming letter on the kitchen table explaining this and fully expected to find a similar letter awaiting me in our new quarters. It was the only way of dealing with that problem.
Celia threaded the long car through the traffic expertly and we broke free on to a highway stretched across flat saltmarshes. The children perched on the edge of the back seat, excitedly pointing out sights of interest to each other. There wasn’t much to see except an endless series of fast-food drive-ins, but that was enough for them. The novelty of it all would keep them happy and occupied throughout the journey.
I was on the edge of the passenger seat myself, but for a different reason. It was one thing to comprehend intellectually that the traffic drove on the opposite side of the road; it was more difficult to encompass emotionally—especially when we soared up the sweeping curve of a hill and I fully expected us to crash into an unseen car mounting the rise from the other direction.
Was that what had happened to John? It had never occurred to me before, but there had been several fatal accidents in England which had eventually been blamed on Americans or Continentals driving on their accustomed side of the road and colliding with native-born citizens going about their lawful business in the correct manner—and killing them.
The police had never been able to trace the killer car, despite finding a generous scraping of paint from the vehicle along the body of John’s car. I wondered if they had ever thought of the possibility of a foreigner being responsible; someone who had undoubtedly driven straight to the nearest car ferry and gone back across the Channel as speedily as possible.
Would they think I was neurotic and possibly unbalanced if I wrote to them and suggested the possibility? Did I care what they thought?
“We’ll stop for a bite to eat along the way—” Celia swung the car on to another road, heading inland. “You won’t want to be bothered about cooking a meal tonight.”
And neither will I. Not that I blamed her; it was quite true that neither of us would feel like cooking and serving a meal after the rigours of the day. Presumably Patrick and Luke would have made their own arrangements for the evening meal.
We drove into an area of lush farmland dotted with white clapboard houses. Although the architecture was unfamiliar, the terrain was strongly reminiscent of home and I could readily understand why this corner of the New World had been called New England.
“Look at that!” The children were more interested in spotting the differences than identifying the similarities. They watched with awe as a beached clipper ship hove to on the horizon and slid past, only at the last moment revealing itself as a roadside restaurant.
“We’ll stop soon,” Celia said comfortingly, misinterpreting their interest. “We haven’t reached the place with the best ice cream yet. Although,” honesty compelled her to add, “practically any ice cream here is better than the kind you get.”
“We can get American ice cream now,” I said, “and it’s very good. Very pricey, thought.”
“What isn’t, these days?” she sighed.
There was a moment of silence in acknowledgement of this universal truth. I relaxed and closed my eyes. I felt as though I had run a marathon and just crossed the finishing line by using the last of my reserve strength.
The important thing was that I had pulled the children with me to a place of refuge. Even if I were to break down now, they would be safe with Celia. She could look after them and provide the stability I might lack for a while—
Celia screamed, slammed on the brakes and burst into tears.
“My arm! My arm!” Tessa screamed. The children had been thrown against the back of the front seat by the sudden braking.
“Tessa—Celia—” I didn’t know which one to comfort first.
“It’s all right.” Timothy put his arm round his sister. “You just bumped it, Tessa. You couldn’t break it again, the cast protects it.”
“I was frightened.” Tessa leaned against her brother, whimpering. “It hurts.”
“Celia!” I turned to my sister. “What on earth possessed you?”
“The dog!” she sobbed. “Didn’t you see it? I nearly hit it. It ran right in front of me. I nearly hit it!” She went on sobbing wildly.
“But you didn’t hit it,” Timothy pointed out reasonably. “You missed it by a mile. It’s all right—” He glanced at me uneasily, obviously remembering a car that had not missed. “It’s all right,” he said again, more tentatively this time.
Perhaps that was what Celia was remembering, too.
She was taking deep breaths, fighting for control, but not winning the battle.
“Look—!” I tried to defuse the situation by providing distraction. “Look at that fantastic restaurant over there! Why don’t we pull in there and have our ice cream now?”
Ahead of us, a building in the shape of a white whale stretached along the highway, a manic mechanical figure perched atop it waving a harpoon. The sign proclaimed: CAPTAIN AHAB’S ARCTIC ICE CREAM.
Tessa gulped a couple of times and shook off Timothy’s arm, craning forward for a better view.
“Come on,” I coaxed brightly, as though Celia were one of the children. “There’s plenty of room in the parking lot—” We were blocking the centre lane of the highway and there were cars coming along behind us. “Let’s just drive over there. I’d love to see what they’ve done with the inside, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like an ice cream, Mummy,” Tessa said. “So would Timothy.”
“And so would I.” I spoke firmly and was relieved to see Celia dab at her eyes and slide the car into motion again. She cut across the nearside lane of traffic and pulled smoothly into Captain’s Ahab’s parking lot.
“You know—” Celia wanted to provide her own distraction now. “That’s something we must do while you’re here. Go on a Whale Watch.”
“What’s that?” Timothy was intrigued.
“Just what it says—watching whales. The whales have their summer feeding grounds right off the New England coast. About fifteen different varieties of whale swim up to the Stellwagen Bank to feed all through the summer. You can take Whale Watch boats out to the feeding grounds and watch them.”
“Truly?” Timothy glanced at me as though suspecting some adult mockery. “You can really see them?”
“Sightings guaranteed,” Celia assured him. “They have a spotter airplane up over the Stellwagen Bank and it radios the location of the whales to the ships. We went last year and Luke was mad about it. He wants to go again, but we’ve been waiting for you. We’ll arrange it after your jet-lag has worn off. Now let’s go and have our ice-cream.”
The interior of the restaurant was less inventive than the exterior. It leaned heavily on fishing nets, lobster pots and the inevitable harpoons. The menu was pleasantly exotic, however.
Timothy ordered a Moby Dick, which turned out to be a banana split coated in whipped cream with two dots of chocolate for eyes. Tessa opted for a Three-Masted Schooner, three peaks of ice cream surmounted, disappointingly, by white plastic sails. I had an Ahab’s Dream, a mound of vanilla ice cream sinking into a sea of blueberry sauce with marshmallow fluff whitecaps.
Celia had a cup of black coffee and three more cigarettes.
The sun was dipping in the sky as we took the final turning to Edgemarsh Lake. Celia hadn’t hurried. There had been moments when I had received the impression that she was not anxious to arrive. I had begun to wonder if there were something wrong with the Harper house; if, perhaps, it looked better by darkness and Celia wa
nted to deposit us there in the gloom and make her escape before we got a chance to look around.
“It’s Smalltown, USA,” Celia said, “but we like it. I could never live in a city again.”
She drove down Main Street and it was charming. Too charming? I found myself peering at the white-painted buildings suspiciously, as though there might be no substance behind them, as though we might have strayed on to a film set. However, lights were beginning to glow behind ruffle-curtained windows and in the plate-glass windows of old houses converted into shops, providing evidence of life within.
“It gets dark earlier on this side of the world,” Celia said. “I had a hard time getting used to it. Even at Midsummer, it’s quite dark by about nine-thirty.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “That’s one of the things I don’t like—so many hours of darkness, even at the height of summer. Especially now—”
She broke off and concentrated on several intricate turns that made me feel we were heading into the heart of a maze. I had a despairing moment when I feared we might never find our way out of it again.
The broad well-lighted street was left behind; we were in a dark twisting road that narrowed as we went along. It was still a two-lane thoroughfare—but only just. Houses were fewer and either unoccupied or owned by people who were going to wait until all traces of light had gone before they began using electricity. I was familiar with the legendary New England thrift.
“There are a lot of summer cottages up here,” Celia said reassuringly. “The owners only come for weekends right now. The season doesn’t start properly until after the Fourth of July, then it goes on until after Labor Day. Some people keep coming for weekends through September and into October if the weather holds fair.”
“It’s been perfect today. In fact—” With the trip pending, I had begun paying close attention to the foreign weather reports in the daily newspapers. “I gather you’ve been having good weather for quite a while.”
“Too good.” Celia frowned into the gloom. “We’d welcome some rain. Everything is getting too dry. This early in the summer, the worst of the heat hasn’t hit us yet. If we don’t get a few good soakings before then—” She broke off and took a final turning in a burst of speed, drawing up before a large house set well back from the road.
“Here we are, she said thankfully. “Here’s your home for the summer.”
“All of it?” Timothy asked in awe. We stared at it in amazement and not a little unease.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” I found my voice at last. “Ours is just a semi-detached.” I was swept by compunction for the innocent Harpers who, at this very moment, might be arriving at the door of our house and wondering if they could squeeze into such small quarters. “What will they think—?”
“Oh, Nancy and Arnold won’t mind,” Celia said airily. “I’ve already explained to them that it won’t be as big as they’re used to and Nancy was quite pleased. Sometimes I think the housework gets on top of her. Arnold won’t even notice and the kids will enjoy the novelty.”
The house was dark, which rather surprised me. I had thought that Patrick, since he hadn’t been at the airport, might have been waiting at the house to greet us. It seemed, however, that he was going to leave Celia to do all the honours.
“Come along—” She opened her door and stepped out briskly. “I’ve got the keys. Let’s get the luggage inside and I’ll show you round, then …” She hesitated. “Then I’ll leave you to settle in and I—I’ll come over for coffee in the morning and drive you round the local spots of interest.”
“Oh?” I couldn’t hide my surprise and disappointment. I had been looking forward to a long gossip with Celia after we had put the children to bed.
“I’m sorry—” She turned the pale blur of her face away as she led the way up the path. “I must get back to Patrick … he … isn’t well.”
“I’m sorry.” I apologized in turn. “I hadn’t realized. What—?”
“Later …” Her footsteps echoed on the wooden steps and across the wooden porch. “Tomorrow …” She opened a screen door, then I heard the scrape of a key in the lock and the inner door swung open. Celia stepped inside, there was the snap of a switch and light flooded the porch.
“Look—” Timothy lingered at the top of the steps, surveying the porch. “They’ve got rocking-chairs out here—and a hammock swing. And—”
“Hurry up,” Celia said. “We don’t want mosquitoes getting into the house. They’ve got those, too.”
“I like the hanging baskets.” Unburdened by luggage, Tessa skipped into the hallway. I went back to the car for the rest of our cases.
Celia had gone through the house snapping on lights. When I entered, the screen door slamming behind me, I found everyone in the large cosy living-room that ran parallel with the long wide porch outside. Two wide windows faced on to the porch and I could quite see how convenient it would be on rainy days to send the children out to play on the porch and still be able to keep an eye on them from the living-room. If we ever had any rainy days here. I said as much to Celia.
“That’s a proper veranda,” she corrected me. “The old-timers still call it a pee-azza.” She gave every letter full value, accentuating a Yankee twang. “Most of the older houses have them. I can see that they’re quite attractive—if you like that sort of thing. We have a modern Cape Cod Cottage with a patio, ourselves.”
“I know. You’ve sent me pictures. I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
“You’d better see this house first.” I winced inwardly as Celia stubbed out a cigarette in a delicate glass bowl. She did not succeed in extinguishing it completely. She sailed out of the room without a backward glance at the thin acrid wisps of smoke still curling upwards from the smouldering stub. I hesitated, but the sides of the bowl were curved and steep; the cigarette could be left to burn itself out safely. Besides, she had halted in the doorway and was now looking back at me impatiently, waiting for me to follow her. It could look too pointed—perhaps reproachful—if I stopped to extinguish the cigarette while she was watching.
“Bring your cases,” Celia directed. “We’ll start upstairs. You can leave your things in the bedrooms.”
I picked up Tessa’s small case and my own; I would carry the heavy cases up later when the children couldn’t watch. Already, Timothy was fretting because he was not big enough to manage them and Tessa was upset because her arm prevented her from carrying even a light case.
“Rosemary, you’ll have the master bedroom, of course.” Celia flung open the door and switched on the light.
“It’s beautiful.” I looked around the opulent room thus revealed. A dark red richly-patterned Oriental rug covered the gleaming pine floorboards, an enormous double bed dominated the room, reflected in both the dressing-table mirror and a full-length pier glass in one corner. The ubiquitous rocking-chair was also present.
“I knew you’d like it,” Celia said with satisfaction. “Now, let’s get the children settled. Tessa, you’ll have Donna’s room. Timothy, you’ll have Donald’s.”
After that, it was a whirlwind tour. Celia raced us from room to room without giving us time to take them in.
“The bathroom … the guest rooms—” Celia opened doors briefly and closed them again—“but you won’t need to worry about that. You don’t know anyone, so you won’t be having guests.” She shut the last door with finality and was half way down the stairs before we could follow.
On the ground floor, she rushed us from living-room to Arnold’s study, to dining-room, to kitchen—and then down into the cellar.
Somewhere along the way, she had found time to light another cigarette but not to find an ashtray. A trail of ashes marked our progress through the house, not deliberately flicked off, just dropping off from their own weight and unnoticed by Celia in her overriding preoccupation.
“When I first came to this country,” Celia told us, “they called basement rooms like this the rumpus room. Now it seems to be the
playroom.”
“Ping-pong!” Timothy shouted joyously, advancing on the table in the middle of the room. A darts board was hanging on the farther wall, a folding bridge table in a corner held a partially-completed jigsaw puzzle, outdoor sports equipment huddled in another corner. Tessa raised the lid of an old chest perforated with holes and discovered a cache of games.
“Do they have giant woodworm here, Mummy?” she asked fearfully, studying the holes.
“We don’t have woodworm at all,” Celia snapped indignantly. “Arnold drilled those holes especially, so that there wouldn’t be any danger if the kids played hide-and-seek and one of them got into the chest. There have been tragedies in the past …” Her voice trailed off.
“From time immemorial,” I agreed. “Didn’t Tennyson do a poem about it—or was it Sir Walter Scott?”
“Probably both,” Celia said. “It was a popular theme. No, Timothy—” she called. “You can’t go in there.”
“Out of bounds.” Timothy read out a hand-lettered notice pinned to a side door.
“Nancy apologizes for that—” Celia relayed the message. “She’s piled all their clothing and private items in there and locked the door. She said it seemed the easiest thing to do.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad she’s done that because it’s exactly what we did. She won’t mind finding a locked room in our house, then.”
“You’ll find the key on the key ring—in case of emergency, but you shouldn’t have to use it.”
“That’s right. I left the key—just in case. The washing-machine overflows occasionally and water has been known to seep under the door. I’d appreciate it if she mopped up in there before any damage was done.”
“The cubicle over there—” Celia was uninterested in my domestic problems—“is a shower stall, so that you can rinse the sand off before you go upstairs if you’ve been swimming in the lake.
“Never mind those steps—” She gestured and another mound of ash fell to the floor. I wasn’t going to worry about it this time—the basement floor was cement. “They lead up to an old-fashioned bulkhead door—you have to go half way up the steps and throw it open. It used to be the only outside entrance to the cellar, but Nancy and Arnold had a proper door put in over there—” Another gesture, another heap of ash. “No one ever uses the bulkhead any more, but they never got round to having it sealed off. You’ll get a better idea of the layout when you see it in the daylight.”
Whiskers & Smoke Page 2
