Shadows on the Sea Page 3

  “I hope he comes home soon,” Jill said. It was hard to know what to say when someone talked about their son in the war.

  “So do I. He’s all I got left since the missus passed away last winter.” The grocer was about to enter the store, but turned to smile at Jill. “I’m the Guy on the sign up there,” he said, pointing up. Jill looked confused and the grocer burst out laughing. “I’m the guy on the sign—Guy Binette. I own this establishment. Guy. Get it?”

  Jill laughed. “I get it.”

  “Now you be careful on that bicycle, young lady.”

  “I will, Mr. Binette.”

  He waved and went into the store.

  She rode farther up the sidewalk. Another window of Guy’s store displayed a poster that read:

  SAVE YOUR WASTE FATS

  TO MAKE EXPLOSIVES!

  GUY GIVES TWO RED

  POINTS PER POUND!

  Jill’s mom collected every drop of fat into a tin can to take to the butcher back home. He awarded two red ration points for every pound of fat too. “With those two red points I can buy an extra pound of sugar,” Mom had said, weighing the can on a small scale.

  Red and blue stamps in ration books were worth ten points each. A pound of hamburger cost forty-three cents and seven points. A pound of butter, when available, took sixteen points compared to oleomargarine, which took only four. Each ration book contained twenty-eight stamps, which Mom guarded carefully. She worried about burglars breaking into their home for their ration book instead of jewelry or money. They’d illegally sell the books and stamps on the black market, where people were willing to pay lots of money for them.

  Jill stopped at the Tearoom Inn and set the bicycle into a rack by the sidewalk. The large Victorian-style house with its weather-beaten shingles and lacy gingerbread trim stood opposite the harbor wharves. Tiger lilies clustered around a fieldstone wall that bordered the property. Perched on the top gable of the inn, a whale weather vane pointed to the south.

  Nana said the tearoom didn’t open until two o’clock, but Jill walked briskly up the flagstone path to the wide porch and pushed the brass doorbell, which clanged noisily. No one answered. Jill looked at her watch. Ten-thirty. Surely someone must be up by now.

  “They’ve gone out!” came a call from the street. A boy in a white sailor’s cap and a plaid shirt stood by a parked car with a bucket of paint and a paintbrush. “You just missed ’em.”

  Jill headed back to the sidewalk.

  “You’re new in town, ain’t ya?” asked the boy. He set the paint down and took off his cap. Strands of red hair blew across his forehead and into his green eyes. He seemed to be about sixteen or so. “I’ll bet you’re Mrs. Winters’s granddaughter.”

  Jill nodded. “Yes, I’m Jill Winters. How’d you know?”

  “Your grandma said you’d be comin’. I’m Quarry MacDonald. Live out to Lighthouse Road. My pa’s the lighthouse keeper.”

  Quarry is an odd name, Jill thought.

  As if reading her mind, Quarry said, “Quarry’s a Scottish name. It means ‘proud.’ MacDonald’s Scottish too. My grandparents were from Nova Scotia, which, in case you don’t know, means ‘New Scotland.’” He gestured to his paint can. “I’m goin’ around paintin’ the top half o’ car headlights black—in case of an air raid. Most everyone’s got ’em done by now, but some are chippin’ and need a touch-up. Folks pay me a half a buck to do their lights.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about air raids in these parts,” Jill said. “Who’d bomb Winter Haven? It’s not a big city with airplane factories or anything. It’s just a little fishing village.”

  “No, it ain’t a big city, that’s a fact, but we’re obeyin’ the law by paintin’ the top half of headlights, just the same. Are you lookin’ for Wendy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, as I said, she just went out with her aunt in their fancy car.” He slammed his hat over his head, capturing wayward wisps of hair under it.

  Jill pulled her bicycle from the stand. “I’ll be heading back, then.”

  “I heard from the grapevine your mother’s crossin’ the Gulf to Newfoundland. Pretty scary with all those U-boats, you know. Did ya hear today’s news? They sunk another merchant ship down the coast.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Jill snapped.

  The boy shifted from one long, lanky leg to the other. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking down. “I shouldn’t-a said that. You’re probably right worried about your ma.”

  “Of course I am, but I’m sure she’s safe in Newfoundland by now. I would have heard if something happened.” Jill tried to sound convincing.

  “That’s right. Say, I hear your pa’s that big Herb, Drew Winters. Good Godfrey! How’s it feel to have a famous pa?” When Jill didn’t answer, Quarry went on. “He travels a lot. I s’pose you worry ’bout him, too. Bein’ on planes so much and all those saboteurs tryin’ to blow things up …”

  “I’m trying not to worry, thank you,” Jill said as she pulled herself onto the bicycle seat.

  “Oops, leave it to me to put my foot in my mouth,” Quarry said meekly. “Sorry.”

  He picked up the paint can and started up the street to the next parked car.

  U-boats! Saboteurs! Jill headed toward her grandmother’s house. When she passed Quarry, she pretended she didn’t see him wave to her.

  Jill was more than halfway home and rounding a bend in the road when her front wheel hit a rock. POP! The tire blew! The handlebars jerked in her grasp and the bicycle veered uncontrollably. She screamed as the bike slipped and skidded, tipping her onto the loose gravel.

  ‘Oh, darn!” Jill wailed as she pulled herself from under the bicycle. Her knees were smarting and she felt a trickle of blood down her left leg. Jill was dismayed to see a rip and a brownish-red stain oozing through the knee of her slacks.

  She got up, pulled the bicycle to the side of the road, and rolled the leg of her pants above her bleeding knee. She looked around and realized she was near the driveway of an old bungalow. A dusty tan station wagon was parked in a run-down garage next to the house. Maybe someone here could help her. If she could use the telephone, Nana would come and pick her up.

  Jill leaned the bicycle against the post-and-rail fence and went to the side door. There was no bell, so she knocked hesitantly. When no one answered she knocked harder.

  The gash on her knee stung and blood had started soaking into her sock and sneaker. Maybe there was water or a hose around somewhere.

  She hobbled toward the back of the house and found a hand pump on a cement pedestal. Jill removed her shoe and sock, then pumped the handle vigorously until water gushed. She held her bruised knee under the flow and gritted her teeth until the icy water numbed the pain.

  When she was finished she sat on the cement, stretching her bare leg to dry in the sunshine. In the backyard, beyond the lawn, she could see what looked like a chicken coop. The whooshing sound of wind in the nearby pines mixed with the cooing of the birds. Why, they’re not chickens, Jill realized. They’re pigeons! Her leg was dry now and her knee had stopped bleeding. She put on her sock and sneaker and wandered over to the coop.

  Twenty or more birds of various shades cooed and fluttered around the cage, which was covered with a mesh wire. Some pecked and trotted on the ground while others poked their heads through little round holes of a dovecote that was part of the enclosure.

  Jill walked around to the other side of the cage. The back of the pigeon coop abutted the wire mesh, but on this side there were shelves with sliding doors. Why would anyone want to keep pigeons? She thought about the parks in Boston and the dirty birds that followed visitors, looking for handouts of peanuts, or messing all over the statues. Jill tapped her fingers against the mesh wire. A few birds fluttered and scattered.

  “Hey! Leave them birds alone!” A dark-haired man suddenly appeared from the house. His long legs brought him quickly to the pigeon coop, and his face was flushed as he charged toward Jill. “What are you doing
?” He confronted her, his hands on his hips. “Can’t you read signs?”

  “I didn’t see any sign,” she stammered. “I fell off my bike and I needed some help.” She pointed to her knee. “I … I knocked on the door, but no one answered so I washed my leg off at your pump, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t hear anyone knock.” He glared at her accusingly. “What were you doing to the birds?”

  “I was only looking at them.” Jill backed away and the man followed her. “I’m leaving now,” she said, heading for the driveway.

  “There’s the sign!” The man pointed to a board that stood between the garage and the walkway to the backyard. NO TRESPASSING was crudely lettered in black paint.

  “I didn’t see it. I was too busy being hurt!” Jill’s voice rose. “I thought somebody might help me, but I guess I was wrong!”

  The man backed down a little. “Do you want to use the phone?”

  “No.” There was no way that Jill would enter the house with this man. “I’ll walk back to my grandmother’s.” She indicated the direction up the road with her hand. “Sorry to bother you,” she said.

  “Your grandmother? Would that be Elizabeth Winters?”

  “Yes. I’m Jill Winters. I’m living with my grandmother while my parents are away.” Jill marched down the driveway and pulled her bicycle from the fence.

  “I’m Clayton Bishop. Sorry if I was abrupt,” the man called as he trailed her. “I was worried about my birds.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s interested in your pigeons.”

  “They’re valuable birds,” Clayton explained. “I breed them … for food.”

  “Pigeons? For food?”

  “They’re better known in restaurants as squab. A real delicacy.” The man stood at the end of his driveway. “I can call your grandmother if you’d like.”

  “No thank you. I’ll be all right.” She headed up the road toward her grandmother’s house, pushing the bicycle slowly and awkwardly on the gravel. Just before the road curved, she turned to look back.

  Clayton Bishop was still standing in the driveway watching her.

  Adrie

  The sun was bearing down hard when Jill finally arrived home. Her left knee was smarting as dust from the road mixed with salty sweat and blood. In the driveway, Nana’s station wagon with its faded wood paneling looked shabby next to a new tan Chrysler coupe.

  Who’s here? Jill wondered as she maneuvered her bicycle past the cars, into the garage.

  Nana opened the kitchen door and called to her. “Come in, Jill. Wendy and her aunt are here to see you.” She left the door open and went back into the house.

  Jill rolled her slacks down over her dusty legs. Her shirt was wringing wet with perspiration and her hair clung to her face and neck in limp ringlets. She went into the kitchen where the tall ceiling captured the hot air and left the living area cool and dry. Voices were coming from the sunporch. Hastily she washed her face with the cold water from the stone sink, then went out to the porch.

  Wendy and her aunt were sitting on a sofa. Sarge was on the window seat, washing his face.

  “Where were you?” Nana asked, looking her over. “What happened?”

  “I had an accident with the bike.” Jill pulled up the leg of her slacks and pointed to her scraped knee. “The tire blew out on a rock …”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s too bad!” Nana exclaimed, getting up to look more closely at Jill’s knee. “I was afraid those tires wouldn’t hold up. What a shame! Your first morning here and you get hurt.” She went into the kitchen.

  “We must have passed you on the road,” Wendy said. “Jill, I’d like you to meet my aunt, Adrie Dekker.”

  “How do you do, Miss Dekker?” Jill said to the pretty smiling woman. Jill noticed that, except for the color of their eyes—Wendy’s being turquoise and Adrie’s dark brown—there was a strong resemblance between the two, right down to that single dimple that appeared when they smiled.

  “Hello, Jill. We thought we’d come over to see you before the tearoom opened,” Miss Dekker explained, glancing at her watch. She wore a rose-colored print dress with a white Peter Pan collar, which didn’t look a bit childish. In fact, Jill imagined that this woman, like Wendy, could make any clothes look glamorous. Miss Dekker spoke in a quiet voice with hardly a trace of a Maine accent. “We don’t have a lot of customers this early in the season. It’s when we have guests and serve three meals a day that it becomes hectic.” Miss Dekker looked Jill up and down, then held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jill. And please call me Adrie. Most folks here in town use first names.”

  “Thank you … Adrie. It’s nice to meet you, too.” Jill shook Adrie’s hand and noticed she was wearing a gold ring with a large red stone. “What a beautiful ring.”

  “It is beautiful,” Adrie agreed. “It’s a rare pigeon blood ruby—my July birthstone. It will be Wendy’s someday—when I’m gone.”

  “Don’t say that!” Wendy exclaimed. “Don’t ever talk about dying. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you!”

  Jill was startled at Wendy’s reaction.

  Her aunt also seemed surprised. “I just meant that you’re my only niece—my sister’s daughter—and your birthday’s in July too.”

  Wendy looked at the floor. “I … I’m sorry. That’s nice of you, Aunt Adrie, to think of me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving this ring to anyone else.” Adrie turned to Jill. “Jill, you have a strong resemblance to your famous father.”

  “We think Jill looks very much like her beautiful mother,” Nana called from the kitchen. “They both have those wonderful honey-colored eyes.”

  Jill flushed. Yes! Mom was beautiful. She had a quiet, royal bearing, yet she was fun, too. She and Dad loved going on surprise trips, treasure hunts, and stargazing picnics. Jill ached as she thought about her mother. How she wished she were here!

  Adrie interrupted Jill’s thoughts. “Jill is quite pretty.”

  Jill certainly didn’t feel pretty, especially when Wendy was around. Today Wendy wore a bright red-and-white-striped shirt with a sailor collar and matching red tie. Her navy blue shorts matched her canvas shoes.

  Nana came back carrying a box of bandages and a bottle of iodine. “Too bad there was no one to help you when you fell.”

  “I stopped for help at that little cottage down the road—the one with the birds.”

  “Birds?” Nana asked as she knelt in front of Jill. “I don’t know anyone with birds.” She painted Jill’s cut with iodine, then placed a bandage over it.

  “I knocked at the door, but no one answered, so I went out back to wash off my knee. A man came out of the house and yelled at me. He told me to leave the birds alone. He seemed to know who you were, Nana,” said Jill, wincing as her wound began to sting.

  “Oh, yes. I think his name is Bishop. He’s new around these parts,” said Nana. “I hardly know him.”

  “Clayton Bishop,” Jill told her. “Don’t have anything to do with him, Nana. He’s pretty mean.”

  Wendy’s aunt straightened her dress around her knees. “Wendy, don’t you want to make some plans with Jill? That’s why you came out here.” Jill thought she sounded annoyed. “Otherwise, let’s head back now.”

  “Can’t you leave me here?” asked Wendy. “I can walk back later. It’s still early and I’ll get back long before two.”

  Jill glanced over at her grandmother, who raised her eyebrows in a silent question. Jill nodded and Nana said, “Do stay and visit, Wendy. We’ll have lunch and then I’ll drive you to the inn by one o’clock. Will that be all right?” she asked Adrie.

  Adrie got up to leave. “That will be fine. And Wendy, don’t be a pest.”

  Nana and the girls walked out to the driveway while Adrie got into her car.

  “This car is a beauty! It’s so streamlined—like a bullet!” Nana said admiringly, as she peeked into the front seat. “You were fortunate to get this before the government’s ba
n on making new cars.”

  “Luck was with me,” Adrie said through the open window.

  “Were you on a waiting list?” Nana asked.

  “Hm? Oh, yes.” Adrie seemed preoccupied as she started the engine.

  “Does this have that newfangled transmission I’ve been hearing about?” Nana called out. “Fluid drive?”

  Adrie nodded and, looking over her shoulder, backed up the car.

  “Maybe I can drive it sometime,” Wendy said eagerly.

  Adrie waved as she drove off down the road, the dust billowing up behind her.

  “I’m going to make us a nice lunch,” Nana said.

  “Can we help?” Jill asked.

  “Why don’t you two go sit out on the rocks while I put things together. You can eat outside. I’ll ring the bell when it’s ready.” Nana headed into the house.

  “Come on.” Jill, ignoring her throbbing knee, pulled Wendy by the hand. They crossed the lawn and climbed onto the rocks that jutted out toward the ocean, then stopped before reaching the place where the high tide came in and the rocks became green and slippery.

  “This is far enough.” Jill settled down on a large flat boulder and put her sore leg out straight. “Oh, look!” She reached into a crevasse that was filled with tidewater and pulled out a tiny snail. “Here’s a periwinkle,” she said, holding it for Wendy to see. “Watch this.” Jill began to sing an old Newfoundland verse her mother had taught her. “Periwinkle, Periwinkle, show your horns. If you don’t, I’ll kill your mother, father, sister, brother, all you have belonging to you.”

  “That’s awful,” Wendy complained. “It’s cruel.”

  “Shh. Whenever we go to the beach back home we always do this. Watch.” Jill held her mouth closer to the shell in her hand and sang the verse again, softly. The hole where the shellfish was hiding slowly opened as the snail emerged, showing hornlike protrusions.

  “Holy moley! Look at that!” Wendy exclaimed. At the sound of her voice the periwinkle pulled itself back into the shell.

  “You scared it.” Jill replaced the snail into the little tide pool between the rocks.