Terrible Tide

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Come to think of it, hadn’t her brother finished a similar table recently? Holly vaguely recalled being dragged out to the workshop the day she’d arrived from New York, still bandaged and in great pain, to admire a piece that was ready to be shipped to Mrs. Brown.

  She closed her eyes, trying to visualize the piece she’d seen once by the light of a kerosene lantern, standing proudly on Roger’s workbench surrounded by tins of wax and greasy rubbing cloths. The total design couldn’t possibly have been the same, but the shape and proportions were surely similar. Maybe she could get Geoffrey to take this one’s picture, or she might wheedle the original sketches out of Fan for comparison. Mrs. Brown always demanded that her sketches and descriptive notes be returned with the finished pieces, no doubt because she was afraid Roger might make a second copy for another customer. They were duly sent back to New York. Little did Mrs. Brown know, though, that Fan always made Xeroxes first, and put the copies in that scrapbook she was keeping to write her memoirs with.

  Anyway, the little table must be a favorite of Annie’s since it appeared to be one of the few pieces that ever got dusted. It was filmed with gray, but there was no buildup of grime around that little gallery. When Holly flipped a dustrag across the top, its luster came up like magic. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn the piece was brand-new.

  Holly gave the priceless relic a last, reverent wipe and went on with her noisy task. She blasted a clean path through the hallway and up the stairs, got her own room in passable shape, and was back at the vacuuming when Annie came to tell her dinner was ready. She ate soggy fried potatoes and leathery fried eggs, decided she’d have to become cook as well as charwoman, and went back to work.

  By late afternoon Holly was aching all over, filthy from hair to sneakers, and barely able to breathe because her nostrils were so clogged with dust. Her last job of the day was to scour the zinc-lined bathtub so she could take the first good, long, hot soak she’d had since the day she was hurt.

  Chapter 7

  HOLLY STAYED IN THE tub until the water cooled off, loving every second of it. At last she struggled out over the varnished wood casing and dried herself on a yellowed but sumptuous towel monogrammed M. For Mathilde, no doubt, poor soul.

  Getting dressed again was too much bother for the short time she intended to stay up after supper. Holly put on a warm nightgown and a long zippered robe patterned in blue, green, and purple. Its high mandarin neckline and knuckle-length sleeves ought to satisfy whatever notions of propriety Annie Blodgett might have, and it would be warm to sit around in.

  Now that she wasn’t pushing the Hoover around, Holly could feel the chill that pervaded Cliff House. Luckily she’d packed a pair of fleece-lined blue-leather house boots, so she put them on, too. Then she remembered Bert Walker might be around doing chores and added some silver jewelry to make the robe look less bedroomy.

  It was as well she did. When she got downstairs, she found Bert sitting in front of the stove with his boots off and his feet stuck in the oven to warm. A noisome pipe was in his mouth and a tumbler of hot whiskey and water in his hand. From the quantity of potatoes Annie was peeling, Holly deduced Bert would be staying to supper. He took the pipe out of his mouth and gave her a friendly greeting, but didn’t get up to find her a chair.

  Annie laid down the paring knife and shook her hands free of potato peelings so she could adjust her spectacles for a better look. “Now don’t you look pert! All dressed up and no place to go, eh? Too bad we don’t have a nice young man around.”

  “Bert’s nice enough for me,” Holly answered. “I only wore this thing because it’s warm. Shall I finish the potatoes?”

  “No, dearie, you sit still and rest your pretty bones. I tell you, Bert Walker, I never saw anybody work the way this young woman did today. She went through this place like a dose of salts.”

  “Annie, I hardly scraped the surface.”

  Holly disclaimed the praise, but didn’t need coaxing to collapse into one of the kitchen chairs. She wouldn’t have minded sticking her throbbing leg up near the warm oven, too, but the emanations from Bert’s gently simmering socks were too powerful.

  It was comfortable here in the kitchen, now that the smell of cooking was beginning to overcome the aroma of Bert’s feet. The two old cronies kept up a pleasantly monotonous stream of conversation that was restful after Fan’s eternal, strident bids for attention and Roger’s chilly politeness. The good wood fire in the big iron stove made the room feel cozy. Both the varnished linoleum on the floor and the checkered oilcloth on the table could have done with a scrubbing, but on the whole, the kitchen was in more tolerable order than any other place in the house except Mathilde Parlett’s bedroom.

  Holly had peeked in while she was vacuuming the upstairs hallway and seen the mistress of Cliff House, wrinkled and brown, tiny as an apple-head doll, her few wisps of white hair straggling over an immaculate linen pillow slip with a heavy crocheted lace edge. The bed she lay on had tall, gracefully fluted posts surmounted by miniature carved pineapples. That piece had reminded Holly of another picture in Fan’s scrapbook. Naturally enough, she supposed. Antique reproductions were supposed to look like real antiques.

  Supper was eatable, though not by a wide margin. Flustered by so much companionship and a hot toddy she’d taken to steady her nerves, Annie had let the potatoes scorch and the slices of warmed-over beef frizzle to shoe leather. The pickles were good, though. Holly ate a lot of pickles and not much of the rest.

  Bert polished off everything in sight, then said reverently, “Thank God for that bite. Many a poor man could have made a meal of it. What else have you got, Annie?”

  “I meant to make a pie in Holly’s honor, but somehow I never got around to it. You’ll have to make do with ’lasses cake.”

  “Suits me.”

  Bert accepted a hunk the size and heft of a double-bitted axe head and washed it down with tea strong enough to float the whole axe. Holly cut herself a ladylike sliver, then wished she hadn’t been so dainty. Annie’s molasses cake was marvelous. She’d know better next time.

  Funny, she was already feeling more at home with these two likable old boozers than she’d ever felt anywhere before. What was going to happen to them when the woman upstairs died, as she soon must? Would Earl Stoodley let Annie and Bert stay on as custodians? After that sterling performance she’d put on with the antique Hoover, maybe he’d consider Holly for the job of permanent charlady. She smiled at the thought, and Bert caught her.

  “What’s so funny, young woman?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m just enjoying myself. You’re a couple of real fun kids, in case you didn’t know it.”

  “Isn’t she sweet?” Annie shed a few alcoholic tears and patted her new helper’s somewhat toilworn hand. “Oh dearie, it’s going to be just lovely having you here.”

  “Ayuh,” said Bert. “Well, I better stir my stumps. Sam will be up here any time now.”

  Annie hopped up. “Bert, you never told me Sam was coming. Land’s sake, I’d better boil up a fresh kettle.”

  “Don’t bust your garters, woman. Sam’s comin’ to pick me up, that’s all. I left the truck so’s Lorraine could cart a bunch o’ junk over to the church for some fool flea market they’re havin’. Why anybody would pay for a mess o’ fleas when they can get all they want for nothin’ is beyond me. I told ’er so, but she wouldn’t listen. Women never do.”

  “I s’pose you think you’re being funny. Well, I better get up and wash the dishes.” Annie leaned back in the rocking chair and closed her eyes.

  Holly took the hint. “I’ll do them. You cooked the supper.”

  Annie’s only reply was a gentle snore. Holly filled the dishpan, enjoying the luxury of hot water straight from the faucet, found an incongruous plastic squeeze bottle of pink detergent among the ancient milk strainers and bootjacks in the cupboard under the sink, and set to work. As she sudsed and rinsed, Bert came and went a few times, clattering logs into the w
oodbox beside the big iron stove with no concern about waking his lady friend. Then he disappeared, perhaps to cut more wood.

  Holly finished the dishes, cleaned out the sink, and was giving the table top the scouring it so badly needed when a head poked around the outside door.

  “Hey, Bert?”

  She jumped. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Neill. Bert’s around back somewhere, I think. Won’t you—” she stopped just in time, remembering Claudine’s orders about not letting anybody into the house.

  The woodcarver must have known the rules. “I’d better not,” he said. “Why don’t you come out?”

  Holly started to say, “I’m not dressed,” then didn’t. She was a lot more dressed than she’d been in some of the bathing-suit photos she’d posed for. Anyway, Neill wouldn’t have any ideas about roaming in the gloaming since he’d only come to collect his uncle. She picked up a black knitted shawl that was lying across an iron cot in the far corner of the kitchen, draped it around her, and stepped outside.

  “Watch out for that broken step. Bert ought to fix it.” Sam Neill reached out a helping hand in a friendly way Holly rather liked. “You don’t look much like a hired girl in that outfit.”

  “Is that a compliment or a criticism?”

  “Just an observation. I don’t know anything about women’s clothes.”

  “Too bad I’m not a Sheraton highboy. You might find me a more interesting study.”

  Neill grinned. “Lay off, will you? I’ve had enough Sheraton to last me awhile.”

  “I thought you and Roger were two hearts that beat as one.”

  “Did you?” The woodcarver picked up a twig and gave it an expert’s appraisal before he threw it away. “He knows his stuff.”

  “I suppose he does.” Holly pulled the shawl tighter. The air was sharper now that the sun had begun to sink. “Frankly, I find this whole Jugtown scene rather incredible. Roger was always my big brother, the banker.”

  “So Bert was telling me. He quit a high-powered job in New York and sold his fancy estate to come up to the old homestead and do his thing. Quite a story.”

  “I’m sure Bert made it sound like one. Actually Roger was only a junior trust officer or something and the house was a nice enough split-level in an okay suburb. Roger had a workshop in the basement there, but I’d never realized he did much more than putter. Of course, I didn’t know him all that well.”

  “Seems funny, not knowing your own brother.”

  “I suppose it does,” Holly admitted, “but that’s the way it was. Still is, for that matter. Oh, look!”

  The sun was slipping into the bay, creating a giant spread of gold and pearl spiked with screaming salmon-pink. Standing here on this high terrace with the hillside sloping down to the cliffs that rimmed Parlett’s Point, Holly felt as if she could reach out and grab the sunset, and wear it for a scarf.

  “This is nothing,” said Neill. “You ought to be up in the Northwest Territory sometime when the aurora borealis starts bouncing off a few thousand acres of snow and ice. Ma Nature’s a gaudy old floozie when she gets dolled up.”

  Neill spoke with offhand affection, as though the earth spirit was one of those many wives Fan had thought up for him. Holly began to wonder about this chap who’d looked so commonplace back in the kitchen at Howe Hill. He could have been Claudine’s companion in the woods, at that. Even standing a few feet away from him, she could feel something that made her want either to edge away or move nearer. She escaped into small talk.

  “Are you really interested in doing what Roger does?”

  “No!” His reaction was explosive. “Slavishly reproducing other people’s designs would drive me out of my skull if I had to stick at it for long. Your brother’s really got the bug, though. I tried to show him how the design of that highboy could be improved by a slight modification in a curve, and I honestly thought he was going to come after me with a chisel.”

  “Roger would never do that,” said Holly. “He’d just freeze you with that cold politeness of his. I’ve wondered whether Roger makes such a fetish of authenticity because he hasn’t the talent to do original work.”

  “Some people are more comfortable following a set pattern. Howe’s a superb craftsman at any rate. Furthermore, you have to respect his courage about doing what feels right to him. Here’s Bert coming. You going to be around tomorrow night?”

  He slipped in the question so casually that Holly almost said yes without thinking. Did this backwoods Romeo expect her to be panting on the doorstep?

  “I’ll be here,” she told him, “but I can’t say whether I’ll be free. Professor Cawne’s going to be doing some photography in the house for a book he’s writing, and I’ve been asked to help him. I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Oh, Cawne’s a pretty fast worker, I’d say.”

  Neill shrugged and went over to his station wagon. Holly stepped back inside, wondering why she felt so annoyed with herself for having said what was so obviously the right thing to say.

  Chapter 8

  BY THAT TIME, HOLLY was ready to call it a day. Annie wasn’t. Refreshed by her nap and the excitement of having someone to talk to, she appeared ready to make a night of it. She reminisced about her years at Cliff House until Holly could no longer hide her yawns.

  “I’m sorry, Annie, but I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “I expect we should both go to bed,” Annie sighed. “I can’t say I relish the notion.”

  “Why not?”

  The old woman lifted a stove lid, poked at dull red embers with the cast-iron lifter, thrust in two more chunks of hardwood, fiddled with the dampers. “There, I guess that ought to hold overnight. We used to burn coal, but Earl Stoodley’s too cheap to buy us any these days. I do hate coming down to a cold stove in the morning when my tongue’s hanging out for a good, hot cup of tea. Don’t you?”

  She took off her dirty apron and hung it with exaggerated care on a hook behind the pantry door while Holly waited, none too patiently. At last Annie wiped her palms down the front of her faded print dress and confessed, “The plain truth of the matter is, I’m scared.”

  “Because of those noises you were talking about to Mr. Stoodley? You don’t honestly believe it’s ghosts, do you?”

  “Dearie, I don’t know what to believe, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t imagine those noises. I hear them as plain as I can hear that pretty voice of yours, and you needn’t start reminding me everybody hears funny sounds at night in old houses. I’ve lived in this house long enough to know every squeak and groan it’s ever made. These noises are different.”

  “How different?”

  The best I can describe it is like somebody padding around in shoepacs or moccasins. Sometimes I hear them downstairs, sometimes up attic, sometimes it seems to be right in the room next to where I’m lying. Sometimes it’s just the footsteps I hear, other times it’s bumping noises like furniture being moved around.”

  Holly raised her eyebrows. “You don’t suppose it could be ordinary flesh-and-blood burglars?”

  “Dearie, I may be an old fool but I’m not a damn fool, as Bert would say. Naturally that was the first thing I thought of. But when I get up the next morning and check around, everything’s the same as I left it the night before. I’ve got Earl Stoodley up here with that inventory list of his more than once, and nothing’s ever been missing far’s we can make out. The doors and windows are always locked. I’ve gone around to every crack and cranny, but there’s never any sign of breaking in, and why should anybody do that anyway if it wasn’t to steal? So, if it isn’t ghosts, what is it, eh?”

  “I don’t know, Annie.” Holly yawned again. “But whatever it is, I’ll hear it too, and we can compare notes in the morning.”

  “But it might not happen tonight. Sometimes weeks go by and I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Lately it’s been coming more often, though. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve gone down those stairs with a poker in my fist a
nd my heart in my mouth.”

  “You mean you’ve actually gone chasing after the sounds?”

  “Of course, dearie. I’m not that much of a coward. What scares me most of all is when I can’t. Nowadays it seems every time I hear something and try to get out, the door to my bedroom sticks shut. It’s like those nightmares where somebody’s chasing after you and you can’t budge hand or foot. Yet the door isn’t locked because I keep the key. And the next morning I can open it easily enough. It’s as if there’s a spell on it.”

  “Do you normally sleep with your door shut?”

  “Always, ever since I came here. Aunt Maude made me. She was afraid Uncle Jonathan might be going to the bathroom in his nightshirt, see, and it wouldn’t be nice if I should happen to wake up and see him.”

  “Who was Aunt Maude? I thought Mrs. Parlett’s name was Mathilde.”

  “Uncle Jonathan married twice. Aunt Maude was the first. She wasn’t really my aunt, just my mother’s cousin, but it sounded more respectful to call her Aunt Maude. Anyway, as I say, I always shut my door but I never used to lock it. You can bet your bottom dollar I do now, though it doesn’t seem to matter one way or the other. I hang the key on a string around my neck because they say iron’s a charm against witches. Laugh if you want to.”

  “I’m not laughing,” said Holly. Annie Blodgett might be a naive country woman, but she certainly had her wits about her. “And you say nothing is ever moved or taken away?”