Free Storm Tide by Elisabeth Ogilvie Page A

Whit. She felt proud of Ellen’s poise. All in all she felt satisfied with the morning. She knew in her bones that all would go well with Joey and Ellen as far as their boarding-places were concerned. For school, that was another matter. But it would be the same in any new school, and Joey would look out for Ellen until she had made her own friends.
    She met no one on the road back to the harbor. The birds darted and twittered in the spruces, and in the places where the sun had not yet struck, there was still the glitter of dew. The coolness was giving way to the delicious warmth of an October day.
    Soon she saw the blue harbor shining through the trees, and the roofs of the fish houses below her, black against the sun glare on the water, and she heard the impotent clatter of the gulls who sat on the breakwater and watched the transfer of herring which they couldn’t touch.
    She didn’t mind the prospect of having to ride home with a boatload of fish. From her earliest childhood she had understood the importance of bait. Why, the smell of the baitsheds had been sweet to her, and to get her hands into rich corned herring, and help Charles or Philip bait up, had been heaven. Seeing the hogsheads full was like opening your cupboard doors and seeing the laden shelves, or going down into the cellar where the jars of canned stuff—your own canning—were stored. It gave you a safe warm feeling; a knowledge that there was something put by against the long winter days ahead.
    Caldwell’s boat wasn’t back at the wharf yet, and she went into the store. Randolph Fowler was behind the counter. A big hulk of a man whose clothes glittered with herring scales was lounging against the apple barrel, drinking a bottle of pop. After the brilliance outside he was a black bulk which she didn’t recognize as she shut the screen door quietly behind her.
    Fowler was talking. “You did just right,” he said. “You want to do that every time, Tom. They’ll soon catch on.”
    The big man’s laughter rumbled in his chest, and he put the pop bottle down with a flourish. It was Tom Robey. “They better,” he said. “And the sooner they catch on, the healthier for the bastards.”
    Joanna had to smile. In the old days Tom had always been calling somebody a bastard, too. ‘Hello, Tom,” she said, and put out her hand to him. “How are you?”
    Fowler nodded at her and began to arrange canned fruit on the shelves Tom looked down at her hand, his heavy brows drawn; he seemed confused. “My hands is filthy, Jo,” he said.
    She wondered if he was embarrassed by the memory of the time when he’d tried to kiss her against her will, at a dance in the clubhouse; it had been years ago, when they were in their teens. Her brother Owen had knocked Tom down, and the ensuing row between the boys of Brigport and Bennett’s had made island history. “Tom, you don’t think I hold that against you, do you?” She smiled at him. “We were all kids together. Let bygones be bygones.”
    After all, he was letting the men have bait—it didn’t hurt to put him at his ease. But he still looked as if he wanted to get away in a hurry. “Well, thanks, Jo,” he mumbled, and strode past her, pulling his cap down over his eyes.
    Fowler came back to the counter. “Something I can do for you?”
    Joanna laughed. “What ails Tom, anyway? . . . Let’s see, I’ve got three lists here. I’m a regular shopping service this morning.” Pleasantly, she met Fowler’s eyes. But his usual genial manner was absent; he was looking past her at nothing, with an air of remote patience.
    I feel so happy , she thought, and everybody else has something on his mind . She began to read the first list aloud. Silently Fowler moved to collect the groceries.
    She borrowed the wheelbarrow outside the store to take the box of provisions down to the