Terrible Tide

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Bert seemed to be experiencing a strange mixture of relief and alarm. “You better talk to Claudine first. Her an’ Ellis are the next o’ kin, not that blood’s any thicker’n water in that fam’ly. Anyway, Mrs. Parlett’s only their great-aunt by marriage, though it wouldn’t cut much ice either way, I don’t s’pose. Yep, you talk to Claudine. I got to get home to my supper. You want me in the mornin’, Roger?”

  “As early as possible, please. I’ve had another letter from Mrs. Brown about that Sheraton highboy, and I haven’t even finished the piecrust tables yet. Fan, I wish you would kindly try to make Mrs. Brown understand I am not a furniture factory.”

  “Roger, we mustn’t antagonize her.”

  “I have no wish to antagonize her. I merely want her to understand that I am not a machine. The carving on that highboy alone will take a week, perhaps longer.”

  “Can’t Bert help you with it?”

  “Bert is not a master woodcarver.”

  “Jack of all trades an’ master o’ none, that’s me,” said the ancient. “I never carved nothin’ fancier than a half-moon in the door of a backhouse. You want fancy carvin’, you talk to my nephew.”

  “Then talk to him, Roger!”

  Holly heard in Fan’s cry the same end-of-the-rope despair that had set off her own outburst. Roger, for a wonder, must have caught it, too. At any rate, he didn’t brush off Bert’s suggestion with his usual silent disdain of the idea that anybody else could come up to his standards.

  “What sort of carving does this nephew do, Bert?”

  “Started out makin’ signs, an’ quarterboards for yachts. Then it got so they was sendin’ for him all over Canada. If somebody wants a special job, like the linenfold panelin’ for that big estate in Toronto, Sam goes an’ does it. Carved statues for a cathedral in Quebec; all sorts o’ stuff. He’s been commissioned to do some work in Ottawa before the next Royal visit if this dratted gov’ment quits horsin’ around an’ votes the money.”

  “There, Roger,” said Holly. “If he’s good enough for Queen Elizabeth, he ought to be able to satisfy Mrs. Brown.”

  “Perhaps. He first has to satisfy me. I’m willing to talk to your nephew, Bert. I suppose he’s off on some affair of state at the moment?”

  Bert either didn’t notice Roger’s sarcasm or didn’t think it worth bothering about. “Nope. Matter of fact, Sam came home last night. Goin’ to stick around till his mother gets out o’ the hospital. Lorraine’s goin’ to Saint John for some operation. Don’t ask me what, eh. I never pay no attention to women’s ailments. Sam might be as well pleased to while away the time helpin’ you out ’stead o’ settin’ around doin’ nothin’.”

  Bert clambered into a pickup truck even more decrepit than the Howes and clattered off down the rutted lane. Roger stepped back inside the workshop. Fan and Holly went over to the house.

  “Holly, you go and rest,” said Fan. “I don’t need help. Roger was just being overprotective of me. He still thinks I’m his sweet little girl bride.”

  She emitted a deprecating whinny, trying to make the fantasy sound halfway plausible. Poor Fan! Holly couldn’t help showing some compassion.

  “Not many men have wives like you, Fan. I can see how devoted Roger is.”

  She didn’t have to say what Roger was devoted to. Fan was happy enough with the remark as it stood. Deciding she’d done her good deed for the day, Holly limped off to clean up and snatch a little rest.

  Chapter 3

  THE HOWES WERE VERY polite to each other at dinner. Roger and Fan made mild attempts to persuade Holly she shouldn’t take the job at Cliff House. They talked about Holly’s own welfare. What they meant was that Roger didn’t like the idea of his sister’s working as a domestic in Jugtown, and Fan didn’t want to lose Holly’s weekly board money.

  Holly wasn’t fooled by Roger’s harping on her being company for Fan, either. Without her around, he wouldn’t have the relief of being spared some of Fan’s incessant bidding for notice. It must have been tough on both husband and wife these past three years, stuck here alone together, each wanting what the other wouldn’t give.

  For a wonder, Fan didn’t say a word about having seen Claudine Parlett in the woods with a man. Could she possibly suspect the man had been Roger? Of course not, how could she? Roger would never do anything so human. Anyway, how could he have got so far from the shop and beaten them back to it? The only transportation at Howe Hill was the truck Fan had been driving.

  Still, Roger did have a tweed cap and a plaid shirt, and the man had been tall. Tallish, anyway. Who cared? Holly went to bed as soon as the dishes were done. By morning, Fan and Roger had talked themselves into thinking they could make the Jugtowners believe Holly only wanted the job at Cliff House to keep her from being too bored while she convalesced. Fan was all ready to drive her downtown for the interview with Claudine.

  “I suppose you know where to go,” Holly remarked as they turned into Queen Street.

  “Oh sure, it’s right here on the main drag. Claudine turned her folks’ house into an antique shop. I guess I told you that yesterday. She and her brother live upstairs.”

  “Maybe it was the brother we saw her with yesterday.”

  “Not on your life. Ellis is one of those gangly teenage types, all hands and feet with hair straggling down over his neck.”

  “Anyway, they keep the place looking nice,” Holly said to change the subject. There were boxes of marigolds and trailing vinca below the many-paned bow window. Inside was a charming display of bone china.

  “That’s Claudine’s doing. Ellis spends his time scavenging for junk he can fix up and palm off on the tourists. They do all right, one way and another. I couldn’t say how well, of course. Claudine’s close-mouthed about her affairs in more ways than one.”

  Holly didn’t want to hear any more about that. She let herself down from the van and entered the showroom, Fan chugging at her heels. They found Claudine selling a luster pitcher to a customer, figuring with a pencil on a paper bag.

  “With the exchange, that comes to forty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents in American money.”

  The prosperous-looking woman who wanted the pitcher fished an ostrich skin wallet out of her suede handbag and started counting out money. “Twenty, forty, five, six, seven, eight. And three dimes. I don’t seem to have any—wait a second, I always have pennies at the bottom of my bag. No, I’m afraid I don’t. Exactly two cents short.”

  She laughed gaily, confidently, expecting to be told, “Forget it.” Instead, Claudine picked up the pitcher and set it back on the shelf. The customer turned red, scooped the money into her purse, wheeled furiously, and stalked out of the shop. Claudine turned to Fan, her face a polite blank.

  “Fan Howe. You’re quite a stranger.”

  Fan, still goggle-eyed at the way Claudine had thrown away a fifty-dollar sale for two lousy cents, giggled self-consciously. “I know. Somehow, I never find the time to get to meetings.”

  Claudine gave that remark the silent contempt it deserved. She just stood there. Fan wasted no more breath on small talk.

  “This is my sister-in-law, Holly Howe, who’s staying with us. Bert Walker says you need somebody to help out at Cliff House, and Holly thought it might be a way to pass the time.”

  Claudine raised one well-shaped eyebrow. She’d be quite good-looking, Holly thought, if she ever cracked a smile.

  “News does get around, doesn’t it? Have you any nursing experience, Miss Howe?”

  “None whatever.” Holly could be brusque, too. “But I’ve just spent a month in the hospital, as you may have guessed from my scars, and I know the routines. I can’t do heavy work yet, but I can cook and keep house after a fashion, and you don’t need a nursing degree to empty a bedpan. Your aunt isn’t really sick, is she? Bert gave us to understand she’s just old and incapable.”

  “And so’s the woman who’s supposed to take care of her,” Fan put in with her usual tact.

  At that, Claud
ine’s poker-face softened. “Annie Blodgett’s an angel straight out of heaven. I don’t know what I’d ever do without her.”

  “I’m not trying to steal anybody’s job,” Holly began.

  Claudine wasn’t listening. Like the rest of them, she had something to get off her chest.

  “Poor Annie. Cliff House is the only home she’s known since she was a little girl. She took care of Cousin Edith and Great-aunt Maude and Great-uncle Jonathan and Great-aunt Mathilde, and now she needs somebody to look after her. If Earl Stoodley had his way, she’d be out in the road and my great-aunt in a nursing home, but I won’t stand for that and he knows it. I’m as much a trustee as he is, and I’ll fight him as long as there’s a breath left in me. But something’s got to be done. God knows what might happen out there, one lying helpless and the other not much better. It’s terrible for me, not being able to go and see for myself how things stand.”

  But why shouldn’t Claudine go if she wanted to? Fan had driven out around Parlett’s Point once so that Holly could see Cliff House, which was the best Jugtown could offer as a sightseeing tour. As Holly recalled, the big Victorian gothic house was only a few miles out of town. If Claudine could prowl the hinterlands with her boyfriend, why couldn’t she walk that comparatively short distance along a good, paved road?

  “Well, I can’t let things run on any longer,” Claudine was saying. “You may as we’ll give it a try. Keep her clean and fed. That’s all anybody can do for her now.”

  Claudine’s voice wavered on those last few words. Holly thought she was actually going to break down, but she didn’t.

  “I don’t know what you expect for wages. Earl wouldn’t stand for more than fifty a week plus your room and board, I do know that. It’s not much, but it’s a case of take it or leave it. He won’t spend a penny more than he can help, and he grudges even that little bit.”

  Holly felt sorry for Claudine, though she wasn’t sure why. “I’m not too concerned about the money. As Fan mentioned, I’m mainly looking for something to do till my scars heal. At least there won’t be many people out there staring at me.” She tried to laugh.

  Claudine nodded. “That’s true. Nobody will see you but Annie and Bert Walker, unless Earl Stoodley chooses to barge in and throw his weight around. Bert does the chores every night, but he never goes beyond the kitchen. Nobody does. You remember that.”

  “Not even the doctor?”

  “We don’t bother the doctor. What’s the use? All right then, Holly. I’ll phone up and tell Annie you’re coming. You go pack your belongings. And I presume you understand once you’re there, you stay. Annie needs a person who’s going to be around when she’s needed, not running back and forth to the village every time she takes the notion.”

  “I couldn’t run if I wanted to,” Holly snapped back. “Shall I take my own towels and bedding, or what?”

  At that, Claudine managed a bleak smile. I expect there’s linen at Cliff House the moths haven’t eaten yet. You’re not going to any resort hotel, you know. Cliff House was a beautiful place in its day, but it’s pretty rundown now. It’s still filled with beautiful things, though, which is why we have to be so particular about no visitors. Even relatives,” she added, with a tight-lipped glance at Fan.

  Fan shrugged. “Take it easy, Claudine. I know better than to gate-crash. Bert tells me that old housekeeper keeps Cliff House locked up like a fortress.”

  “She’d better. Don’t you ever forget, Holly. Nobody sets foot in that house except the fire brigade, God forbid, if they should ever be needed. You can’t keep Earl Stoodley out because he’s the other trustee, but don’t let him near Mrs. Parlett. He’s itching for her to die so he can start his stupid museum and get his fat face in the papers. I wouldn’t put it past him to accidentally drop a pillow over her face, or open the windows in the hope she’d catch pneumonia. And if that’s defamation of character, I couldn’t care less. You can start tomorrow morning.”

  She glanced at the door. The Howes took the hint. Once outside, Holly burst into half-hysterical giggles.

  “What have I got myself into? Is she always like that?”

  “Pretty much,” said Fan. “Did you notice how she got in a dig at me for not showing up at the Women’s Circle? I went a few times when I first came up here, but I soon saw it wasn’t going to help Roger any, so now I don’t bother.”

  Holly had other things to think of than the Women’s Circle. “What did she mean about that Earl Stoodley and his museum?”

  “Mrs. Parlett’s willed Cliff House to the town after she goes. Earl Stoodley’s got this bee in his bonnet about turning it into one of those historic homes people pay to see. He claims that’ll attract more tourists to Jugtown and be good for business. I must say it sounds reasonable to me.”

  “But would anybody actually come to see the place? Jugtown’s awfully off the beaten path.”

  “Stoodley claims the house is full of genuine antiques. Maybe you can sneak me in for a peek on Annie’s day off.”

  Fan pretended to be joking, but Holly could see sticky times coming. Having seen what Fan could do to unguarded premises, she wasn’t about to risk turning her sister-in-law loose at Cliff House. She changed the subject.

  “Why’s Mrs. Parlett leaving Cliff House to the town instead of to Claudine and her brother?”

  “Because they’ve had a big fight over something or other. Somebody at the Women’s Circle told me Claudine vowed never to darken the door again as long as Mrs. Parlett was alive. From what she said just now, I guess she meant it.”

  “So instead she sits down here and frets herself into a state because she can’t go to see Mrs. Parlett. That makes sense!”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Why should Claudine fret about what happens to Mrs. Parlett? She’s not going to get anything out of her.”

  But she did care. Fan couldn’t have noticed how close the antique dealer had come to breaking down. Fan never did notice much that wasn’t connected with Roger’s needs. Right now she was heading for the grocery store, wondering aloud how she was going to stretch their meager food budget over those seven elegant little dinners Roger expected to be served every week, not to mention breakfasts and lunches. What a life for a woman brought up to affluence!

  Fan did appear to be genuinely distressed at the prospect of Holly’s moving out to Cliff House. Maybe it was just Holly’s board money she was going to miss, but what the heck?

  “Look, Fan,” Holly said, “I’m not taking all my stuff out there, till I see how things are going to work out. How about if I go on paying you, say twenty-five dollars a week, to keep it for me? That way if the deal falls flat and I have to come back in a hurry, I won’t feel I’m imposing on you. Does that sound fair?”

  It wasn’t fair at all, in fact. Holly had every right to leave her own things in her own half of the house. Fan naturally didn’t see it that way. She was just glad and relieved.

  “Sure, Holly. It sounds fine. Look, any time you need a ride or anything, let me know.”

  “There’s one thing you can do for me right now.” It had occurred to Holly that she might have to pass a lot of boring hours at Cliff House. “Mind dropping me at the public library, if there is one? If I’m going to be stuck out there with two old women, I’ll need something to keep me entertained.”

  “They must have books in the house.” Nevertheless, Fan made a detour and pulled up in front of a squarish building with ivy marching in well-disciplined ranks across its red-brick walls.

  Holly opened its door on a smell she always enjoyed: dust and paper and printers’ ink, with gentle overtones of dry rot. Models spend a lot of time sitting around waiting, so she’d developed a passion for reading. Now that she couldn’t squander money on paperbacks, she might as well make use of the public facilities, such as they might be.

  In fact, Jugtown had a pretty good library, for its size. Holly had no trouble selecting some good novels and a couple of biographies she’d been wanting to read. Getting
the librarian to let her take them out was another matter.

  “I’m sorry, but you must have a library card.”

  “Then could I have one, please?”

  “Certainly, if you’re a local resident. Just fill out this form and your card will be ready by Wednesday.”

  “But I don’t think I’ll be able to come then.”

  The librarian must be a relative of Claudine Parlett. She didn’t exactly snatch the books away, but she didn’t look very unbending, either. Holly tried another angle.

  “Perhaps I could take them on my brother’s card or his wife’s? I’m staying out at Howe Hill with Mr. and Mrs. Roger Howe.”

  The librarian flipped through her file. “Neither of them is on our list of borrowers.”

  Holly might have known. Roger had his own reference books on antique furniture, he never looked at anything else, and where would Fan find the time to read? She was about to admit defeat when an unexpected rescuer appeared.

  “You may use my card, Miss Howe, if you’ll forgive the liberty. I’m Geoffrey Cawne, and I have had the pleasure of meeting your people, though less often than I’d like. You won’t mind, will you, Marie?”

  “Not if you don’t, Professor.” The librarian smiled at him as she stamped the books and handed them across the desk.

  “Thank you so much,” Holly told her sweetly, “and thank you, Professor Cawne. I do appreciate it, and I’ll be sure to return them on time.”

  “I have every confidence in you,” he assured her in a voice that was a pleasant blend of academic precision and human warmth. “Now can I offer you a lift to Howe Hill? I’m a neighbor of sorts, you know. My house is that odd-looking gray one on the knoll just before the curve in the road. You may not have noticed because it sits rather far back.”

  “I certainly have, and I love it. My sister-in-law is picking me up on her way back from getting the groceries. Otherwise, I’d be glad to ride with you.”

  She would have. Geoffrey Cawne was the kind of professor who made college freshmen—the female ones—swoon on the spot. He was an inch or so taller than she, which would bring him close to six feet. Shell-rimmed glasses added just the right note of strength to what might have been almost too blandly attractive a face. His slacks were handsome Crombie tweed; his cardigan knit of the finest New Brunswick homespun. He must be twice her own age, but Holly couldn’t help wondering if there was a Mrs. Cawne in that ultramodern gray house. Not that it would do her much good if there wasn’t. A man like Cawne wasn’t apt to be much interested in a mangled assistant housemaid, if that was what she’d so recently become.