call Mary and make reservations for you, dear?”
Nell already knew that Mary Beattie owned the only guest house in Mort Harbour and she’d already decided she must stay there for a few days because it was the obvious way to get to know the people who lived in the outport. “All right,” she said. “I’ll start out there anyway. Thanks, Gladys.”
Within minutes, Gladys was putting down the phone. “You’re all set Good thing we phoned. She only has two rooms and Kyle had reserved the other one.”
Nell’s eyes flew to his. “Aren’t you staying with your friends?”
“No,” he said.
Quit prying was what he was really saying. “You were right about those caribou,” Nell announced.
“You told me you couldn’t afford bed—andbreakfasts.”
Because Nell was essentially a truthful woman, she tended to trip herself up when she did lie. “My financial state is really none of your business,” she said loftily, and speared another pancake.
“We’re never told what the princess says to St George after he rescues her, are we?” Kyle said unpleasantly, and got up from the table. “Thank you, Gladys. I’ll be back later to get my stuff.”
He had disappeared by the time Nell finished eating. She went to the beach and collected her gear, then did a wash and hung it on Gladys’s line. The wind billowed through it, ballooning her T—shirts as though they all contained women in the last stages of pregnancy. Like her grandmother all those years ago, Nell reflected, and went for a brisk hike along the shore. It took only the first five minutes for her to conclude she couldn’t possibly plan a strategy for meeting her grandfather; she simply had to wait on events. The rest of the walk she spent trying not to think about anything but the whitecaps on the water and the gulls wheeling and dipping on the wind. Worrying about her grandfather was a totally nonproductive pursuit And, apparently, she would have met Kyle sooner or later anyway; Mort Harbour was definitely too small for a man like Kyle Marshall to remain anonymous.
Was the good friend he had mentioned a woman?
With vicious strength, she fired a rock into the tumbling waves. His past couldn’t have been devoid of women. Women in the plural. Not one of whom was any of her business. If she’d been smart, she’d have come straight from St. John’s to Mort Harbour, rather than allowing herself to be seduced by the beauties of the national park at Terra Nova. Then she wouldn’t have met him.
She tramped another two miles along the rocky beach, ate a banana and a muffin for lunch, then hiked back to Gladys’s. Her clothes were dry. She repacked her gear under Sherlock’s reproachful brown eyes, left money for Gladys and headed for the wharf. Kyle was already there. She nodded at him distantly and marched up the gangplank to board the boat, a move that felt every bit as momentous as entering the huge jet in Amsterdam that had brought her across the Atlantic.
The coastal boat, stout and sturdy, rather like an overgrown tug, had a passenger lounge, a snack bar and a big shed for freight anchored on the deck. It was clearly a working boat; yet there was an air of sociability about it that Nell found very appealing. She propped her pack by the shed, watching as boxes of groceries and supplies were casually handed down from the dock and stacked in the shed with no system that she could discern. At about quarter past four, the gangplank was drawn up, the mooring lines were thrown on board and the captain blasted a signal as they pulled away from the dock. The strip of water widened.
Nell moved to the stern, staring mesmerized at the wake. She was on the last lap of a journey that had started the day she had read her grandmother’s diary in the attic of the old brick house that belonged to Nell’s mother and father, the house where Nell had grown up. The diary, musty smelling, the ink faded, had described at great length all the members of Anna’s family, her friends, the fears of war, the hunger and travails of the occupation. But then had come the liberation, and the diary had changed. There were no more close—written pages dense with adjective and adverb. Instead, the entries were terse, with big gaps between them.
A Canadian regiment had been billeted for a weekend in the village of Kleinmeer where Anna lived. Anna had met one of the soldiers and instantly fallen in love with him. His name was Conrad Gillis, and he was from a little place called Mort Harbour in Newfoundland. Delirious with the joy of liberation and the pangs of love, Anna had taken Conrad to the old barn on her uncle’s farm. There they’d made love several times. Anna’s actual words had been cryptic: “We have been together in the barn. The sun caught the dust in the air and danced with it. I didn’t tell him I love him.” Then Conrad’s regiment had to leave and Anna discovered she was pregnant. “My moeder and my vader say I may keep the child and live with them. I am lucky. My friend, Anneke, is being forced to give up her baby…I have made inquiries. Conrad is married. So there will be no marriage for me. I have brought disgrace upon my family in the eyes of the village. The only thing I am glad of is that I didn’t tell him I love him…Today my daughter, Gertruda, was born.” And there the entries had ended.
Gertruda was Nell’s mother.
The spaces between these short sentences had seemed to reverberate with all that had not been said. The village was small. Gertruda would have grown up knowing she was different, that somehow her very presence had brought shame upon the family. No wonder she had moved away from Kleinmeer as soon as she was old enough. No wonder she had embraced a rigorous respectability and the strictest of rules and had married a man twenty—seven years her senior in whom there was no spark of passion. No wonder she had warned Nell against the perils of sex.
The tragedy was that Gertruda had been dead two months before Nell had found the diary; so Nell could never tell her mother that now she understood her behavior. Understood and forgave. For Nell had suffered from the stultifying atmosphere of the old brick house: the lack of laughter, fun and play; the harsh rules that had set her apart from the other children; the sense of secrecy, of things kept from her that, nevertheless, affected her every move.
As far as she could remember, she had only met Anna once, and that was when she, Nell, had been very young, perhaps three or four. She had known she had a grandmother; she had also known, with a child’s perceptiveness, that this grandmother was not to be discussed.
And now she was on her way to meet Anna’s lover, Conrad Gillis. He, she could only assume, could have no idea that he had fathered a child in a foreign land or that he had a Dutch granddaughter. Her attempts to write a letter that would break this news to him before she arrived on his doorstep had all ended in the wastebasket—crumpled balls of paper that failed miserably to communicate what surely could only be said face—to—face.
So here she was on Fortune II on her way to Mort Harbour. She had made inquiries to ascertain that Conrad was still alive and living in the same place. And that was the extent of her knowledge. Except that she was scared to death.
From behind her, Kyle said, “You look as though you’re trying to solve all the world’s problems.”
They had moved beyond the shelter of Caplin Bay into more open water; the boat was heaving on the swell. Balancing against the rail, Nell turned to face him. “Just my own,” she said lightly. “How long will it take us to get there?”
“At least two hours—it’s on the far shore of the peninsula. And what are your problems, Petronella Cornelia?”
“Whether or not I’ll get seasick,” she said dulcetly.
“Right,” he replied wryly. “The wind’s sou’west—it’ll get rougher yet.”
