At the Water's Edge, Page 25

  "What'll it be then, Willie?" said Angus, ignoring the question. "The usual?"

  "Aye," Willie said, continuing to eye me suspiciously.

  --

  I got so that I could pull a pint without half of it being foam, and tried to remember what Meg did when there was a lull. I topped up the water pitchers, took empty glasses back to the kitchen, and wiped the bar until my wrists ached, but what Meg did that I couldn't was chat and flirt and anticipate orders.

  There was not a single local who didn't ask after her, although they did it individually and discreetly. It was clear they knew what had happened, although Rory's name was never spoken. Angus simply said that while she was improving, she was still feeling poorly, and that he'd pass along their good wishes. To a one, they responded with serious nods and expressions that underscored a wordless rage.

  The lumberjacks did not ask, and their discomfort increased as the night wore on. It seemed to me they were trying to figure out if they should leave, and probably would have been relieved to do just that.

  Conall was at his usual place by the fire, and by his hopeful look I realized he expected me to join him. His eyes followed me wherever I went, and over the course of the evening--when it finally dawned on him that I wasn't coming to sneak him bits of my dinner--he lost faith and dropped his head on the stones. It was all I could do to not take him a little something. We had a pact, and I felt terrible about breaking it.

  When all the tables and stools were occupied, and I was running back and forth between the front room and the kitchen, the hours began to fly. Before I knew it, everyone had eaten, I'd cleared the tables, and hadn't broken anything. I'd spilled just two drinks, and only one of them had landed on a customer--the piper, Ian Mackintosh, who was entirely gracious about it.

  When nine o'clock rolled around, and Angus tuned the wireless to the nightly broadcast, I paused in the doorway to listen.

  The Red Army was drawing ever closer to Berlin, and had cut railway lines and roads that led to the city. Dresden may have already been reduced to rubble, but the Allied Forces continued to bomb Germany "night and day," in the words of the announcer. British troops had taken Ramree, an island in Burma, and an important battle had begun on Iwo Jima, an island close to mainland Japan.

  I slipped away before I could hear the number of casualties.

  Rhona had the dishes stacked next to the sink, and I stood beside her to help. She seemed to have shrunk over the course of the evening, and was moving even more slowly than usual. If we'd shared a language, I'd have suggested that she rest her feet and let me do the dishes.

  Conall had slipped in behind us, and when the last plate was washed, he heaved a heartbroken sigh and collapsed by Angus's bed, as though my cruelty had deprived him of the energy to even jump up.

  If I'd done the dishes on my own, I would have let him lick a few.

  --

  After everyone left, I took a bowl of the latest incarnation of soup upstairs, along with a half pint of beer.

  "Knock, knock," I said, although Meg's door was open. "I brought you a little something."

  She'd made her way back to the bed and lay facing the far wall.

  "Unless it's morphine, I don't want it."

  I put the bowl and glass down and sat next to her. She'd lost what little color she'd had earlier in the day.

  "What happened? I thought you were feeling a bit better."

  "I was," she said. "I think I overdid it."

  "I brought you some soup. Do you want to move back to the chair?"

  "No. I think the chair is what did me in." She raised herself onto an elbow, slowly, haltingly. It was painful to watch. "Just stick a pillow behind me. So, how did it go downstairs?"

  "I think it went fine," I said. "I only doused one person."

  I held the soup under Meg's chin and fed her half a spoonful. She winced, manipulating her jaw carefully. Earlier in the day, Rhona had added finely diced pieces of potato and leek, along with a few other vegetables.

  "Do you want me to pick the vegetables out?"

  "No. I can mush them around. I just have to be careful."

  "Have a sip of beer," I said, putting the soup down and handing her the glass. "Someone wise once told me that it builds blood."

  "Maybe she wasn't so wise after all," Meg said with a wry smile. She took a swallow and gave it back. "So, when I asked how it went, what I really meant was..."

  She fell silent. After a few seconds, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  I finally comprehended what her earlier surge of liveliness and corresponding collapse had been about.

  "No, he didn't come, and I don't think he will. I don't think he'd dare."

  She nodded and blinked. Her eyelashes were moist.

  "I'm so sorry, Meg."

  "Aye," she said, sniffing. "I suppose I knew that, and I suppose it's for the best, but God help me, in spite of everything, I still love him. It's not something you can just turn off."

  I held her hand.

  "So you really don't think you can fix things up with your husband?" she asked.

  A sickening feeling spread through me. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Anna said you were getting a divorce. Please don't be angry--it's just she's never met a divorcee."

  "She still hasn't! And she probably won't, because I'm not getting one!"

  "You're angry!" Meg said with a sudden sob. "I shouldn't have said anything."

  "No, no, no, don't cry," I pleaded. "I'm not angry, exactly, but I am a little alarmed. How many other people do you think she's told?"

  "Possibly Angus, but I doubt it. She swore me to absolute secrecy."

  Angus. My heart lurched at the thought.

  "Anyway, I'll tell her tomorrow you've changed your mind, and that will be the end of it. Was it just a rough patch then?"

  "No," I said. "It's definitely permanent."

  "It might come around again. You never know. You must have loved each other at some point."

  I shook my head. "I thought we did. But no, I'm afraid not. His affections have always been elsewhere."

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I was curled in the chair when the air-raid siren started its wail. There was no warning, and almost no warm-up--it went from silent to deafening in a matter of seconds.

  "Oh God, oh God," I said, jumping to my feet and looking wildly around. Meg's siren suit was stashed under the chair. I grabbed it, then stood helplessly at the foot of her bed. I had no idea how to wrestle her into it. Angus and Conall showed up seconds later, before I had a chance to try.

  "Put that on yourself," said Angus, when he turned the flashlight on me and saw what I was holding. "And grab the gas masks."

  "The two of you go," Meg cried. "I can't make it."

  "The hell you can't," said Angus. He thrust the flashlight at me, then scooped Meg up along with all her bedclothes and carried her away.

  I pulled on Meg's siren suit, grabbed our gas masks, and clumped downstairs.

  A hazy bit of moonlight revealed the shelter's squat outline, and I ran ahead, holding the flap back while Angus climbed in with Meg. Then Conall slunk in, and I followed, letting the flap fall shut behind me.

  I turned the flashlight on and leaned it up against the wall. Angus, stooping because the ceiling was so low, made his way to the bunks at the back and laid Meg on the bottom one. She turned on her side, writhing.

  "Give me her gas mask," he said, crouching beside her. "And get yours on as well."

  He slipped Meg's over her battered face. She whimpered and curled up even tighter.

  Angus reached beneath the bunk and pulled out a roll of brown canvas that was labeled FIELD FIRST AID. He unfurled it, revealing a variety of surgical instruments and containers strapped to the interior. A moment later, he was injecting something into Meg's arm.

  "What was that?" I asked, kneeling beside him. "Was that morphine?"

  "Aye, a Syrette. A preloaded syringe. I jostled her something fierce getting her in
here, and I see no reason she shouldn't sleep through this." He glanced back at me. "I said get your mask on."

  I was struggling with the straps when Angus twisted on his heels and did something to the back of my head. I reached up to investigate. He'd secured the place where the straps converged with a safety pin.

  Several aircraft screamed overhead, one after another. I shrieked and covered my head. Angus threw his arms around me and I clutched him in a death grip, turning my face and digging the canister of my gas mask into his shoulder.

  "Those are Spitfires--just Spitfires. There's nothing to fear," he said. "Let's get you up top. I've still got to get my gun."

  I gripped the edge of the upper bunk and he gave me a leg up, as if helping me mount a horse. I struggled to find my way under the covers, but the gas mask made it nearly impossible to tell what I was doing.

  "I'll be right back," he said, ducking away. I cried out, even tried to grab him, but a moment later he was gone. As even more aircraft zoomed overhead, I burst into tears, blubbering inside my gas mask.

  The gun must have been in the dugout, because he was back almost immediately.

  "It's all right," he said, crouching by the flap. "It's just more Spitfires."

  The siren was relentless, rising and falling, rising and falling, and after a few hours I grew numb to it, lulled into a stupor.

  I lay on my side, watching Angus the entire time. He kept his head slightly down, listening carefully. Each time a plane roared overhead, he shouted over to me, telling me what it was. I didn't know the difference between a Lockheed Lightning and a Bristol Blenheim, but decided that if Angus wasn't outside shooting at it, it probably wasn't going to drop a bomb on us. I grew so inured to the siren's wail I was startled when it finally went steady, shrieking solidly at its highest note.

  When it tapered off and fell silent, Angus set his gun down.

  "That's that, I guess," he said, climbing to his feet.

  He made his way toward the back of the shelter and dropped out of sight to check on Meg. A few seconds later, he reappeared, folding his forearms on the edge of the bunk and resting his chin on them. His face was right in front of the clear plastic window of my mask, and I realized he'd never put his on. He hadn't even brought it out. His arms had been full.

  "You all right then?" he asked.

  I started to kick my way free of the covers.

  "Stay put," he said. "Meg's asleep."

  "We're spending the night out here?" I asked, my voice muffled by rubber.

  "Aye, what's left of it. It will be easier to navigate by the light of day, and I don't want to manhandle her again." He tapped the window of my mask. "You can take that off, you know."

  When I removed it, he took it from me and leaned over to put it back in its ridiculous red case.

  "Are you warm enough up there?" he asked.

  "Yes, but where will you sleep?"

  "I'll nip inside and get a quilt."

  "Why don't you take the top bunk, and I'll move down with Meg?"

  "No. She's curled up, and it would take some doing to rearrange her. We'll stay as we are."

  "There's enough room up here for both of us," I said.

  He popped back up. Our eyes met, and this time there was no separation at all, no plastic windows, green canisters, black rubber, or anything else that might have disguised my words. I had no idea how they'd come out of my mouth.

  He smiled, and the skin beside his eyes crinkled.

  "I'm sorry," I said, aware that my cheeks were blazing.

  He held two fingers to my lips, then slid his hand around until he was cupping my cheek.

  I gasped and turned into his hand, pressing my face against it and closing my eyes. When I opened them again, he was staring right through me. His eyes were as penetrating and startling as the first time I'd seen him.

  "Hush, m'eudail," he said. "Everything's all right."

  He pulled his hand free.

  "Where are you going?" I cried.

  "Back in a jiffy," he said, slipping out of the shelter.

  He'd left the flashlight on. Conall was sitting by the entrance, his head bowed like a gargoyle.

  Angus returned with a quilt, which he wrapped around himself. He crouched against the wall by the entrance and turned off the light.

  "Good night, m'eudail."

  I reached up and traced the area of my face where he'd touched me.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  On the ninth day, I began to wonder if something had happened to Ellis and Hank, and if so, would anyone know how to find me. On the eleventh day, it dawned on me that they might not be planning to return.

  It started out as magical thinking, but I soon convinced myself it wasn't that outlandish: Ellis had no home or money to return to, whereas Hank had all the money in the world, and would continue to have it wherever he was. They could change their identities, go somewhere exotic, find an opium den by the sea, leave the whole mess behind. I knew I was part of that mess, but if they really had run off together, never to return, why would they care what happened to me? Maybe they'd found some fondness for me after all, and had decided to set me free.

  Of course, I wouldn't really be free until I managed to make it legal, but the idea shone as brightly as a sliver of light beneath a prison door. I was sure Angus would let me stay on until the end of the war--I worked as hard as anyone--but it was more than that. I felt at home at the inn, even welcome.

  I couldn't bring myself to think beyond the war, when the proprietor came back. My dearest hope, my deepest desire, was the one thing I couldn't let myself think about at all, in case I started to believe it was possible, because I knew it wasn't.

  On the twelfth night of my husband's absence, I moved back into my room.

  --

  It was mid-afternoon, and Anna and I were up in Meg's room. We were making ourselves scarce because Rhona was concocting yet another soup, this one with a base of mutton shanks and barley. Between them, Rhona and Mhathair appeared to have laid out an exact plan for Meg's recovery based on soup and tea. There were now four big pots simmering on the range, and they filled the entire building with an irresistible aroma.

  Apparently it was not irresistible to Meg.

  The three of us were sprawled on her bed playing Hearts when she wrinkled her nose and asked what the stink was. I told her about the new soup.

  "Not Scotch broth!" she wailed. "I haven't had real food in two weeks!"

  Anna and I glanced at each other. This was the first time Meg had shown an interest in any food since her injury--real or otherwise.

  "I'll be right back," said Anna, leaping into action.

  She returned shortly with a bowl of porridge and a coddled egg, both of them swimming in butter.

  "I hope you enjoy it," she said, handing the egg to Meg and putting the other bowl on the table. "Because when Rhona tells Mhathair, I'm done for."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because their prescription of the day is cock-a-leekie, and no doubt I've undone all their good work."

  "This is marvelous," said Meg, her mouth full of egg. "I don't suppose there's another?"

  "I'm afraid not, but I'll bring an egg a day from now on."

  "And if the hens don't cooperate?" I asked.

  "I'll pick them up and squeeze until an egg pops out," Anna said, making strangulation gestures with her hands. "And if that doesn't work, I'll remind them what happened to Jenny."

  "Who's Jenny?" I said.

  "The hen in the soup. She stopped laying. Do you want to know the name of the sheep in t'other?"

  "No! I most certainly do not!" I said.

  "Elsie," said Anna. "She was a fine ewe. She'll also show up in potted hough, mutton hot pot, and haggis. Oh, we'll be seeing Elsie for quite some time."

  "Stop!" I said, holding my hands over my ears. "I'll never be able to eat again!"

  "City folks," Anna said, shaking her head. "You never even met Elsie...I can see your cards, you know, when you tip
them like that."

  "Behave yourselves, the both of you!" Meg said, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. "My ribs--remember?"

  "Sorry," Anna said in a singsong voice. "It's not my fault if some people can't--"

  There was a knocking on the door downstairs, a solemn, familiar rhythm.

  The three of us froze.

  My mind began to race. Meg had already lost everyone, Angus had already lost everyone--

  "Robbie," Anna gasped, leaping from the bed. I scrambled after her, and had just caught up when she yanked the front door open.

  Willie the Postie was on the doorstep, holding his hat along with a telegram.

  Anna slid silently to the floor. I dropped down beside her, wrapping my arms around her.

  "Anna!" Willie said quickly. "It's not for you."

  "What?" she said, looking up at him with shocked eyes.

  "It's not Robbie," said Willie. "The telegram is not for you."

  "Oh," she said.

  "Mrs. Hyde," said Willie, "I'm afraid it's for you."

  I climbed to my feet, confused.

  "My deepest condolences," said Willie, handing me the telegram.

  Anna got up and closed the door, even though Willie was still standing there. I walked to the couch and sat down. Anna sat next to me.

  The telegram was from a lawyer. My father had choked to death on a piece of steak fourteen days earlier. The lawyer was sorry the notification was so late, but my whereabouts had been somewhat difficult to discern. I was to confirm whether this was indeed my current location, and if this was where I wished details to be sent.

  I set the piece of paper in my lap and looked blankly across the room.

  My father had died on the night Ellis tried to beat down my door, the night Rory nearly killed Meg--

  It was also the anniversary of Mairi receiving the telegram that turned out to be the end of her.

  "Maddie?" Anna said in a hushed voice.

  I handed it to her.

  "Oh, Maddie," she said after reading it. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry. Is there anything at all I can do?"

  "I think I need to be alone for a while."

  "Of course. Whatever you want."

  As I stood, she laid her hand on my arm.

  "That was Valentine's Day," she said, her eyes opening wide.

  "I know," I said. "It must be cursed."

  --

  I walked slowly along the A82, stepping aside to wait as an impossibly long line of moss-colored military vehicles rolled past. They were lumbering and square-faced, the first dozen or so with tarps tied over their loads, and the rest transporting soldiers. Men from every vehicle leaned out the open backs, hanging by one arm, to whistle and make catcalls. More than a few made vulgar comments, but there was no way I could escape their attentions. I was trapped at the side of the road.