Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  As a child she had not really noticed. But now that she had grown into a refined young lady of seventeen, it became clearer to her worldly-wise eyes with each passing day that there was absolutely nothing in this provincial town to interest her. The main street of Port Strathy had not changed in fifty years, possibly even longer. The chandlery, Miss Sinclair’s Mercantile, the office next door—now occupied by Strathy’s first resident doctor—all were as staid and static in their appearance as ever.

  The fish processing plant was the town’s newest addition, having been built not long before Allison’s birth. But it wasn’t much to boast about for one like Allison MacNeil. Nor was the “New Town” which had sprung up around it. The entire vicinity was permeated with the distasteful odor of fish, and if it had swelled the population of the town by some two hundred, they were of an even more undesirable breed than the fishers and farmers. The rows of company houses they occupied were in many cases as poor as the abandoned crofters’ cottages in the Highlands, and a rowdy district had grown up alongside them, with two new pubs where loud music and heavy-fisted brawls were not uncommon.

  Allison looked about and sighed heavily. Still no sign either of her great-grandmother or Nat. But what was there at home for her to hurry back to? She doubted she’d ever be able to forgive her parents for taking her away from school; it had been her only touch with civilization. As much as everyone else in the family might enjoy the company of those dull fishers and ignorant crofters, she certainly had more respect for her own position than that. If her father was from that class, he was different. He had struggled to get an education, to better himself, to rise above the station of his birth.

  And Allison intended to do the same. That is, she did not intend to be dragged back to those depths by remaining buried here in Port Strathy all her life. Let her mother prattle about the merits of the simple life; Allison wanted no part of it. What she wanted was the life her family’s position and standing entitled her to. She should be wearing silk and fine linen, not this outlandish checkered shirt with dungarees. But she had no reason to dress up;—she would never run into Charles—or even Eddie Bramford here.

  She glanced up again, this time noticing a plain girl about her own age crossing the street. If I remain in Port Strathy much longer, she thought to herself, I will be certain to end up like Patty Doohan. Of course, Patty had no choice. She was a commoner, an orphan raised by an older sister who worked in the plant. Watching the girl approach, Allison could hardly believe they had been childhood friends. But there had been so few girls her age in the area, and Patty had seemed, at the time, the best of the lot. She could have been pretty, with her rich chestnut hair and large dark brown eyes. But she let her hair hang in a most unfashionable manner, and her eyes seemed to droop like the eyes of a sad, tired bassett hound. What they could have had in common back then, Allison couldn’t even imagine. Fortunately, she had now grown beyond such juvenile relationships. If Patty had no choice about her direction in life, Allison did, and she intended to make use of it.

  Or did she? Allison sighed once more. Well, maybe not for the time being. But one day she would be able to make her own choices, and then she’d show everyone!

  “Hi, Allison,” said Patty rather shyly as she came close. Perhaps she, too, was remembering the days not so long ago when they had played and laughed together.

  “Hello, Patty,” replied Allison. “How are you?” she asked, as a matter of course, in a tone that implied that it did not matter.

  “Jist fine.” She held out the basket she was holding. “Been shoppin’. Miss Sinclair’s got some real fine apples this week.”

  “Oh, has she? I’ll have to tell the cook so she can purchase some for us.” Allison emphasized the word cook heavily. She wouldn’t want Patty to think she did the shopping herself.

  “I thought ye was away at that boardin’ school.”

  “Oh, I was, but I’m rather old for school now.” As she spoke Allison was not the least aware of the upward tilt of her nose. “I’m just biding my time here before I go to London for the season.”

  “Oh,” said Patty flatly. Then as if an afterthought, she added, “How nice.”

  What an awkward conversation, thought Allison. If only I had some excuse not to just stay here, or if Patty would be on her way.

  An uncomfortable moment or two of silence followed. At length Patty said goodbye, and turned to go.

  “It was good t’ see ye, Allison,” she called back with a smile.

  Allison forced a smile in return, but no words of farewell would come. She had not particularly enjoyed seeing her old friend, for more reasons than she could even name or understand.

  Not many minutes after Patty’s retreating figure had disappeared in one direction, Nat appeared ambling casually toward her down the street in the other. He was munching an apple and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the first fine spring day since the storm the night of the celebration when the schooner had gone down.

  “Well, it’s about time!” Allison snapped when he was within earshot. “You’re lucky I didn’t have to come fetch you.”

  “What’s your rush? Grandma’s not back yet.”

  “She’ll be along,” replied Allison defensively. “I just didn’t want her to have to wait on you.”

  Nat grinned good-naturedly, but before his sister could retort with another caustic remark, she saw her great-grandmother emerging from the mercantile carrying a small parcel. Nat hurried to her side, relieving her of the package, took her arm, and led her across the street to the car.

  For all her frail appearance, the old woman walked with a sure, steady gait, hardly requiring the assistance of her young great-grandson. But she patted the boy’s hand and smiled her thanks to him.

  “Well, children,” said Lady Margaret rather breathlessly, “I think I’ve finished with everything. I do appreciate your carting me about.”

  “Glad to do it, Grandma,” replied Nat, while inside Allison wondered what he meant by the words. It was she, not Nat, who was doing the carting.

  “Your great-grandfather thinks I should take up driving one of these,” she said, tilting her head to indicate the auto. “But,” she chuckled gaily, “I’d sooner take to horseback riding again.”

  The younger folk laughed with her. Whether she could have mounted one of the spritely coursers in their stables was a question their father, Alec, would not allow to be answered. But both of them had heard many times of the three wonderful mares, Cinder, Raven, and Maukin, which Lady Margaret and Grandpa Dorey had ridden all over this very countryside in their youths.

  Nat proceeded to help his great-grandmother into the front seat of the car. He then walked around in order to climb in behind the wheel, leaving the rear seat for Allison. But she put out her hand to prevent him from opening the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Allison inquired pointedly.

  “Aw, come on, Ali,” pleaded Nat. “I can do it.”

  “That may be. But you can practice with Daddy, not with me.”

  “Aw, Ali!”

  “The car is my responsibility, and I won’t leave it in the hands of a child. And don’t call me Ali!”

  Brushing past him, Allison climbed into the driver’s seat, and Nat into the back. She turned the key in the ignition, but the engine only turned over limply, then made not another sound. The Austin seemed to have no intention of moving from the spot where it sat. Again Allison tried to coax it to life, this time pumping furiously on the accelerator. Still there was no response. Slapping at the steering wheel, she opened the door and climbed out, with Nat on her heels. Wrenching up the bonnet of the car, she stared at the jumble inside. Nat elbowed her aside, and she had no choice but to defer to him. He had, after all, learned something about the workings of engines from Mr. Innes before his death.

  Nat reached in and began tapping and wriggling various parts that he considered the most likely offenders.

  “Here, hold this back,” he said, indic
ating a greasy hose.

  Allison wrinkled her nose distastefully, then plunged her hand into the grimy mess. In a moment Nat seemed satisfied with his work.

  “Go around and try it again,” he said.

  She laid the hose down according to her brother’s instruction, then brushed her hair from her eyes, smudging her nose as she did so, and climbed in once more behind the wheel.

  But despite Nat’s efforts, nothing happened. She rejoined Nat, who had procured several tools from the boot and was about to take a wrench to what he thought might be a loose connection.

  “Mr. Innes would know what to do,” he said, almost to himself and with a hint of sadness in his voice.

  For the first time of the afternoon, Allison’s expression softened. Each of the MacNeil children, in their own way, had been attached to the kind old factor, and Allison knew what her brother must be feeling to miss him at such a moment. They exchanged a rare, momentary, tender look.

  But just as quickly Allison’s expression resumed its look of superiority, and she barked out rather gruffly, “Maybe you’ve hit something this time . . . I’ll try again.”

  But the Austin continued to make the same obstinate protestations. And since automobiles were few in Port Strathy, and the nearest automobile mechanic more than twenty miles away in Fraserburg, the options before the three stranded travelers looked to be rather limited.

  Allison jumped out of the car a third time, angry by now, looked around helplessly, and gave the tire a futile, surly kick.

  15

  Stranger in a Strange Land

  Logan had stepped off the schooner that morning a bit shaky in the knees and even more so in the stomach, wondering why he had abandoned the train in Aberdeen in favor of the sea route. He had never been attracted to the sea-faring life—and now he knew why. Even worse, he had not been able to interest a soul onboard in a friendly little game of poker. He had reached the conclusion that if these fisher types were all so intent upon hanging on to their money, it would be dull sojourn indeed in this place called Port Strathy.

  For his stomach’s sake, and in an attempt to disprove his first impression of these northern folk, the first thing Logan did upon touching firm, dry land was to spy out the local pub. Had he been seeking only a drink and a round or two of cards, he would no doubt have ended up at one of the establishments of the New Town, where his enterprising nature might have been more fully satisfied. However, as he was in need of a place to stay as well, he was directed to the only respectable inn in the place—the Bluster ’N Blow.

  The fact that the history of the establishment dated back nearly two hundred years impressed Logan very little. Always looking ahead, to him anything that old was a step backward rather than into the future where real life was to be lived. He had had quite enough of old buildings—mostly the rat-infested tenements of Glasgow and London. The ultimate dream, to Logan Macintryre, would be to take up residence in one of the fashionable new West End apartment complexes, complete with every modern convenience.

  He thus viewed the Bluster ’N Blow as neither quaint nor respectable. But since it was the only available hostelry, he’d have to make do. If he, however, was unimpressed with the inn, the innkeeper was quite taken with his new customer. For though Logan was dressed only in his tweeds, he appeared every inch a dapper gentleman, and Sandy Cobden knew a man of means when he saw one.

  “Afternoon, sir,” said the innkeeper. “An’ what might I be doin’ fer ye?”

  Logan strode jauntily to the counter and perched himself on one of the tall stools. “I’d like a room, my good man,” he said, “and something to soothe my sea-tossed insides.”

  “Ah, ye must hae jist come in on the schooner.”

  “That I did,” replied Logan. “I should have waited for the train, but then I’d have had to finish the last of the trip overland, and I was anxious to get here.”

  Cobden laughed. “Ye see why we dinna get many visitors,” he said, and as he spoke the innkeeper brought a bottle of his best Glenfidich Scotch up from under the counter. “Ye’re lucky e’en t’ hae a schooner t’ ride after the accident several weeks ago. But take a drap o’ this. It’ll be jist the thing fer yer stomach,” he added, pouring out a dram for his guest. “So, ye’ve come from Aberdeen, have ye . . . ?” queried Cobden, drawing out his tone in order to elicit some response. He took what he considered his “position” in the community with the utmost seriousness, and was therefore ever vigilant for whatever bits of gossip he might stumble across.

  “Farther than that, I’d say—London, actually.”

  “I thought so!” declared Cobden, “the moment I heard yer accent.”

  In reality he had thought no such thing, for even after seven years in London, Logan had not entirely lost his Scottish tongue. He spoke with just enough mixture of the various dialects to which he had been exposed that his speech readily would have confounded the most experienced British linguist. Without revealing a thing, Cobden’s curiosity was more than aroused by this well-dressed Londoner with the Scottish brogue. But he restrained himself from further questioning for the moment. He preferred to gather his information by more subtle means.

  Instead, he busied himself with buffing the counter and wiping several glasses, while Logan sipped his Scotch and wondered that such energy could be summoned from so huge a bulk of a man. At length Logan finished his drink and took a coin from his pocket.

  “Are you a sporting man, Mr.—?” Logan paused, as no introductions had as yet been forthcoming.

  “Cobden’s the name—Sandy Cobden.” The innkeeper laid down his cloth and thrust a hand toward his visitor, shaking the smaller man’s hand vigorously.

  Logan, smiling a bit wanly, recovered his hand and introduced himself. “Well, as I was saying, Mr. Cobden, might you be a sporting man?”

  “I’m na too sure if I take yer meanin’.”

  “I thought we’d lend a little interest to our tête-à-tête and toss a coin for my drink. Tails, I pay double, and heads, it’s on the house.”

  “Why not?” agreed Cobden.

  Logan flipped his gold sovereign high into the air, catching it crisply on the back of his left hand with his right over it. When he uncovered it, the face of George the Third leered up at them. “Sorry, old chap,” he apologized, pocketing his coin.

  “Not a bit o’ it!” grinned Cobden in his most congenial manner. “Yer drink would hae been on the house anyway, ye bein’ all the way from London, an’ all.”

  “That’s mighty friendly of you.”

  “We’re a friendly little toon, Port Strathy is.” Cobden resumed his labors, then after a moment’s pause, in an off-handed way, asked, “So . . . hoo lang will ye be stayin’ wi’ us?”

  “It’s hard to say just how long my business will detain me,” replied Logan noncommitally.

  “Business, ye say . . .” Cobden mused, half to himself, half hoping his puzzled expression would draw something further from the stranger. He was remembering the last time such a dapper-looking fellow had come to Strathy on business some twenty years ago. That time it had meant nothing but trouble for the town. He hoped it would be different this time. But this young man certainly looked friendly enough, Cobden decided. And if there was one thing Sandy Cobden prided himself on, it was his keen ability to judge character.

  “I thought I’d have a look about the place before dinner,” Logan went on, ignoring Cobden’s query. He was not quite certain how he was going to proceed on his quest, and he wanted to make sure he had a good feel for the town before he said anything. “Would you be so kind as to take my suitcase up to my room? I should be back in an hour or so.”

  Logan strode confidently from the inn.

  He might not know how to begin this latest project that had brought him so far off the beaten path. But one thing appeared certain—it was going to be a breeze. These cuddys wouldn’t know a good dodge if it jumped out and kissed them. Why, that Cobden fellow still had no idea he had been fooled by the m
ost elemental of cons—a double-headed coin!

  Yes . . . he felt instinctively that his luck was taking a turn for the better. It only remained to find old Uncle Digory’s treasure and hop aboard the next schooner or train back to civilization.

  The first order of business, therefore, was to locate these Stonewycke people. They might prove his most difficult obstacle, however, for if they were of the cultured aristocracy, they were likely to be far more worldly-wise than that Cobden or the sea-folk he had encountered on the schooner. But notwithstanding whatever potential snags lay in his path, Logan’s confidence was running high as he walked along the cobbled street, noting the rustic buildings of gray granite and the coarsely clad residents he met along the way.

  Ambling past Sinclair’s Mercantile and looking in the window, he heard a shout from farther down the street. He glanced up just at the moment when an animated young lady had aimed a fierce blow to her Austin’s tire.

  He took in the scene with amused interest. The girl in blue jeans and sandy blonde hair with a smudge across her nose was certainly in keeping with the general motif of the town, though the auto was somewhat out of place, despite its antiquity and obvious state of disrepair.

  All at once, without really thinking, Logan turned and started toward the Austin. His best ploy in a place like this would be to ingratiate himself with these country folk. And what better place to begin than with these stranded wayfarers?

  16

  Introductions

  Allison had ducked her head into the car to explain the situation to her great-grandmother; she did not, therefore, immediately notice the approach of the stranger. When she did look up, he had gone past her and was greeting Nat in a cheerful tone.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  Nat wiped a grimy hand across his sweaty forehead and grinned.