Far Cry, page 10
There had been no stories last Christmas. Everything was different with Bobbie gone. When the first week of December passed without Uncle Anders dropping his line, Kit rowed along the shoreline and spent a cold morning pulling up rockfish, waiting for a ling cod to strike. The one she finally caught was on the small side. She left it in a bucket outside Uncle Anders’ door. The next day it lay in tatters where something had dragged it, near the top of the boardwalk stairs.
She could still pick up a few boughs on her way back and forth. No cedar crowns, though, not anymore. She caught the chicken herself, held it longer than strictly necessary before yanking its neck. She sat alone in the cabin while it roasted, then wrapped it up warm for the walk. She had planned to make lefse once she arrived at the cottage, but finding Lys asleep and her father and Uncle Anders bent over a game, she hadn’t the heart. The pancakes would taste all wrong anyhow, with no lutefisk to clear the way.
* * *
Boat day yesterday, Kit—I wonder, did you catch sight of the Camosun from your skiff? When I failed to notice Lys waiting by the door, she gave a breathy woof. I let her out to hobble down to the dock. Not long afterwards, I followed. If the storekeeper does not see to the order, who will?
Not even a week into the season and I am accustomed to the juddering cannery, the screaming gulls. The tide swilled about the pilings, a bloody broth. Sunlight caught the skim of scales. When the Camosun docked, I made my way to the forward side doors, order book in hand. My pencil travelled the columns, a check for every barrel, every sack.
I cannot say why my eyes strayed to the gangplank, the passenger coming ashore. I believe I let out a sound. For a moment I lost track of myself in time.
Stepping down onto the dock, the young man stood uncertain, as though he might turn around and reboard. I lowered my eyes, intent on the swimming figures in my book. At the edge of my vision, he seemed to decide. His rucksack swung at his side as he headed for the other Chinese on the dock—Jung Lee Long and a couple of line workers Knox had loaned him to help carry the cookhouse order up the hill.
I turned my back. Sacks of oats and crates of whiskey, leaden spools of chain. When I allowed myself another glance, the newcomer was making himself useful, shouldering a quarter of beef for the long walk up the cookhouse stairs.
With you and your mother both gone, I had the Johnson boys for help, also on loan from Knox. They worked like men, and when the order was packed away in the stockroom, I paid them more than we had agreed. Money has never meant much to me, you know that. These days it matters even less.
By the close of day, I had almost convinced myself I was mistaken. The shop bell rang as I was about to step out from behind the counter and lock the door. Had he been watching from the boardwalk, waiting for the last of the wives to fetch her mail? He drew the door closed behind him. Again, time slipped out from beneath me. Is the resemblance really so keen, or did my mind touch at his features with a wishful brush?
I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Your father.”
“You knew him?”
I gave no reply.
“Jung Lee Long said he was here last year.”
I nodded.
“He said he used to row out to that island.”
“—That is so.”
He watched me. “The men…I heard talk of a woman, a Mrs. Starratt?”
A trembling ran down my arms. I gripped my hands to quiet them.
“Did he leave with her?” the young man said. “Do you know where they went?”
My body moved out from behind the counter. Measured steps to the door, the bell a bright jangle as I drew it open wide. “There is nothing I can tell you.”
Up close, I saw the line in his forehead, a half inch of vertical worry his father had never worn. “Please,” he said. “All he told me was he was going north.”
You will think me hard, Kit, but it pained me to meet his gaze. I looked out over the bay. “If there is nothing else, I am closing up.”
* * *
—
But you must be wondering what happened at the Fortunes’ floathouse. Frank Sr. was your grandfather, after all.
Tom was set on doing things by the book. It would take a couple of days for Dr. Pollock to make it down from Namu to sign a certificate of death. In the meantime, we kept the body in the cool of the stockroom, laid out on a platform of crates. As a witness I was obliged to stay on, though in truth I had given little thought to my abandoned camp. I slept by the stove now, on a second pallet not far from Frank. He and I kept busy scrounging deadfall along the shore, dragging it back to split and stack. Already we had a way of working side by side.
Frank would not hear of us digging a grave. “It’s good of you, Mr. Fortune, but I think he’d rather go at sea.”
We took Tom’s boat. Who knows how much Grace had told her husband. I cannot be certain if he was helping out as any man does on the coast, or if he was walking an extra mile—for the dead man’s son, perhaps, to show him what a decent fellow might look like. Or for Grace, to see the bastard off the place.
We motored a good way out into the sound, looking across at the idea of Asia, the ocean’s lead-coloured truth. Tom stood up, his knees bending with the swell. “Anyone want to say a few words?”
Frank had that boy’s look on his face again. His eyes met mine, so I stood up by the body Grace had been good enough to stitch into a blanket. “We give Frank Starratt—”
“Francis,” Frank said. “That’s his proper name, our name. That’s what my mother called him.”
I nodded. “We give Francis Starratt Sr. to the sea. May he rest in peace.”
Tom took the legs while I got hold of the shoulders, Frank struggling to get a grip midway. The body would have been heavy enough without the lead sinkers. “Worth the waste,” Grace had said when I walked in on her winding them around his ankles. “Make sure the devil stays down.”
“Right,” said Tom. “One, two—heave.”
The splash seemed slight for such a big man. Down he went, dark into darker. The three of us watched him go.
* * *
—
While Tom and Frank worked over the engine on the boat that was now Frank’s, I gave Grace a hand stock-taking in the store. At the time I wondered at her tackling the job so soon. That was before I knew the calm taking a tally can bring.
She spoke of Frank Sr. only once more in my hearing, and then she did not say his name. “Storekeeper? Some hope.” She stood with her back to me, straightening a line of tins. “Can you see that sonofabitch keeping a place in order? Never mind serving folks.” She looked round. “Ever think of it yourself?”
“Me?”
“Why not? Helps to have a place in this world.”
A picture came to me, my hands on the counter, steady and clean. I saw myself from the waist up, half a man and better for it. And yes, I pictured your father too. I was not foolish enough to let myself love him—not in that way. Much as I had laboured to keep to myself over the years, I could recognize the spark of want in a man’s eye. The only longing Frank ever turned my way was a boy’s.
He offered to come with me to collect my things, but already my little life up the inlet had become a source of shame. I was not too proud, however, to accept the loan of his boat. It was one of those strangely still days that lie either side of a storm. The Easthope’s t-t-t-t-t-t multiplied as I turned into the cove. Everything seemed wretched—it was like clearing up a dead man’s camp. I left a note for any poor soul who happened upon the shack before the forest reclaimed it. You are welcome here.
* * *
—
Frank changed during that week at the floathouse. On New Year’s Eve his voice came out for “Auld Lang Syne.” You know his face when he sang, Kit, he and your mother doing the one about the Irish girl, alive alive-o! Yes, he was beautiful. I felt the stab of it from time to time.
The day we were due to leave, I found Grace sitting on the little back deck, gutting the morning’s catch. She folded forward to rinse her hands. “About set?”
“We are.”
Standing up, she edged a mess of innards off the planking with her boot. “You’ll take the dog.”
I had not known it was what I wanted. I looked at her.
“I’m too old for babies.” She gestured with her chin. Skygge had come padding out to stand beside me. “Besides, he’s sweet on you.”
So there were three of us who left the Fortunes’ store in Frank’s boat—the Dogfish, of all names. Its one-lunger kept a steady rhythm as we motored north, the Coot tied up and wagging in our wake.
* * *
Friday afternoon on the tow back in, Kit forces herself to sit up straight. The sea is whale-coloured, crusted with waves—a chop she feels in her teeth. She dips a nod to any man who looks round from the skiffs before her, shows her back to those behind. She’s done it: five nights setting and picking the net, five mornings off-loading a respectable catch. Two days on dry land now to recover her strength.
At last, the shaggy rise of Squid Island, kelp crowns thrashing off the point. There are sea lions in Deep Cut Cove, several heads in the water, a big male hauled up and swaying on the beach. A string of bluffs and lesser coves before the island draws aside, revealing the shoreline she knows best. Evening light on the little beach, the twist and glimmer of the stream. On the headland, her cabin shows in glimpses. No smoke from the stovepipe. Why would there be?
At the mouth of the bay, a solitary figure in a cannery rowboat. Headed the other way, he passes them at a distance, his progress smooth in spite of the chop. Black hair, blue jacket—Archie Paul? No, slimmer shoulders, longer arms. Nobody she knows.
Kit closes her eyes. Lys will be waiting—on the dock or, if her joints are bad, on the boardwalk at the top of the stairs. Uncle Anders, too. Having stepped out of the store, he’ll be standing at the porch rail, watching over the fleet’s return. Of course, he’s sorry; he needn’t say it out loud. She’ll let herself look for him. She might even answer his wave.
10
You cannot know how it comforted me, Kit, you stopping by the store after your first week out. Not much to say for yourself, but that was nothing so strange. I had the crowd to see to—scores of grubby, wound-up fishermen in need of a drink—and you were plainly tired.
I had hoped to sleep well myself tonight, knowing we are friends again. That was before I caught sight of my pad and pencil on the bedside crate.
* * *
—
Far Cry Cannery. Your father and I asked the way at Duncanby Landing and caught the incoming tide up-inlet to the bay. It was clear even before we tied up that no one had been looking after the place. Knox was here on his own, acting the part of winter watchman until he could find a man to take on the job.
I told Skygge to stay in the boat—even as a pup, there never was such a good dog for overcoming his want in the face of a command. Over the years I let him have his head, knowing he would come when called. Except the once, but you know all about that. A tale for another time.
Alone for too long, Knox could not help hurrying down to the dock. He straightened his smile when he heard we had come about work. Man of business, he led the way inside the cannery—colder somehow than the out-of-doors. We crowded into the office at the top of the stairs, and Knox got himself in behind the desk, leaving your father and myself to stand. He took up a pen. “Frank Starratt, you say?”
Frank stepped forward. “That’s right.”
Knox clucked his tongue. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name before. Maybe a story or two.”
“My father, sir,” Frank said. “He passed on.”
Knox looked at him. “I run a tight operation here, Starratt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No time for troublemakers.”
“No, sir.”
“Frank is his own man,” I said. “He is a hard worker, steady.”
“That so.” Knox watched me for a moment. “And you fancy yourself for storekeeper.”
I nodded.
“Got any experience?”
Tell him you helped out here, Grace had said. Tell him you’ve got a head for figures.
“Oh, yes?” said Knox. “What’s seven times nine?”
“Sixty-three.”
He nodded. “How about people?”
“People?”
“Storekeeper does more than keep accounts. We get all sorts coming through when the run is on. How are you at managing folks?”
It was Frank’s turn to speak up. “Andy gets along with everyone.” He shot me a grin. “Doesn’t take any crap, but he gets along.”
“That so,” Knox said again. He scratched a long note to himself. Finally he looked up. “I’ll try you out, the pair of you. See what you can do.”
* * *
Kit opens her eyes to the cabin’s blackness. A sound? If so, it doesn’t come again. A silence then, emanating from behind the curtain to her parents’ room.
Touching her feet to the floorboards, she pushes the blanket aside. Finds the lamp and matchbox by feel. Light helps, but she can still hear it, the bedroom’s hum.
She stands and crosses to the curtain, pulling it roughly aside. Nothing. His clothes on their hooks, the trunk beneath them. The bed is dark, a painted crate for a table on either side. Above the headboard, the shining shadow of the pelt.
A mink is a vicious thing, her father said. Hungry, was Uncle Anders’ word, a great hunter for its size. At nine years old, Kit was used to being keeper of the chickens, cleaner of the coop. On a bright March morning she opened the little door to find one of the hens cowering in its box. The second bird lay bloodied and the third flopped around squawking. The mink registered at the edge of her eye, a twist of darkness at the tear in the wire. She’d seen one before, up on its hind legs by the stream.
She ducked into the coop. Catching up the broken hen, she tucked it beneath her arm and pulled its neck. Quiet, then—until the one in the box let out a cry.
The mink would be back, Uncle Anders said, it would not forget its kill—even though both birds were already plucked and quartered, softening in Bobbie’s pot. The trap was heavier than it looked. It smelled faintly of smoke. Kit and Uncle Anders wore gloves when he showed her how to make the set. The next morning, the mink lay lifeless. Her uncle was good at many things. She watched him skin the animal, helped him tack the pelt out on a board.
“Ought to fetch a buck or two,” Frank said when the skin was dry.
Uncle Anders had stopped by on his way back from a swim. He stayed when Bobbie got down the fourth mug.
“You keep it,” he said. “He was your visitor.”
“Yeah?” Frank said, reaching for the pelt. “Thanks.” He draped it over his wife’s shoulders, against her dark-brown hair. “Look at that, willya? Perfect match.” He touched the back of his hand to her throat.
“Well.” Uncle Anders drained his coffee and stood. “What do you think, Kit? Will we see what is biting out there?”
* * *
—
All right, she’s looked. The pelt is lifeless. The bed is— The bed is marked, squiggles of white on the grey blanket, like the chalk on Uncle Anders’ slate. It takes her a moment to understand that it’s salt. Of course. He was wringing wet when they carried him home. She got a good look at him then, her father. She and Ida rolled him carefully to one side then the other, tugging off his soaking clothes.
Kit backs away from the bed, the touch of the curtain making her jump. It’s all right, the main room flickers around her now. She turns to the window. How long until dawn?
* * *
We were alone together, your father and I, those early months at Far Cry. Knox stayed on for the first few days, watching from the office while we sawed the rotten planking out of the cannery floor. Satisfied we knew what we were doing, he boarded the southbound steamer, leaving the two of us to work through the daylight hours and settle in over the cribbage board by dark.
We drank enough to sleep untroubled, rarely more. The storekeeper’s cottage had a proper stove, so we dragged a second bed up from the bachelor sheds. I was often the first to wake. If I lay watching Frank for too long, Skygge would let out a whine. I learned to look briefly and rise.
Knox had left us a list of jobs twelve pages long. When we got on to patching the cannery roof, Frank clambered over it like an ape. It took us the better part of a month to right the pilings and set the long dock true. From there we moved on to the bachelor sheds. There was no note about the China House and the Indian shacks, but we could see the sorry state they were in. Knox would not have stood for us wasting new lumber on them, so we took a tour up-inlet to the wreck of Glenelg Cannery on Shotbolt Bay. Scavenging was not nearly so dark a task with a friend.
All through the winter, I swam—as far out as Squid Island when the sea wasn’t too rough. When the weather turned fine, Frank carried his few things down to claim the best of the bachelor sheds at the near end of the row. He had a plan to cut a window in the wall. I told him he would let the wind in along with the light, but his mind was made up. On our next trip to Shotbolt Bay, we found a frame with four good panes.
