—
Although the tea itself tasted like boiled twigs—I supposed it was ersatz—the “wee dram” helped so much that after my bath I lay down to have a rest. I was surprised to find myself drifting off, because I was excited. I couldn’t wait to tell Ellis about Anna’s relatives.
Several hours later, I floated out of my nap to the buzz of conversation and laughter rising from the main floor. I was surprised by the number of voices, since I knew we were the only staying guests, and decided the inn must also be a pub. I lit the candle, which Anna had replaced, and looked at my watch. It was evening, and I was hungry again. I hadn’t had a proper meal since I left the States.
You’re thin as a rail, Ellis had said.
I’ve seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow, Anna had said.
I let my hands explore my belly—the hipbones that protruded sharply, the concave area between, the rib cage that loomed above.
Oh, Madeline. We really have to do something, my mother had said.
I was twelve and at first had no idea what she was talking about. I’d stepped out from behind the striped canvas of the changing tent on the beach at Bar Harbor and was breathless at the deep blue of the sky and even deeper blue of the ocean, at the laughter and shrieking of the children who played at the edges of the lapping surf, at the seagulls swooping and diving. I turned, alarmed at her tone. She shook her head sadly, but her eyes were hard. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she surveyed the parts of me that made me most self-conscious. They were the parts that were filling out but were not yet curvy. I was merely pudgy. I’d never felt a deeper shame in my life.
She’d have approved now, I thought, stretching my legs out. With my ankles and knees touching, my thighs never met. And then I thought, No, she wouldn’t. No matter what I did or who I became, she would never have approved.
—
Hank’s and Ellis’s rooms were empty, so I headed downstairs. I assumed they’d returned, discovered I was asleep, and gone down for drinks. I was eager to tell them what I’d learned, sure they’d be pleased with me. Perhaps with the right type of persuasion, even Cousin Donald would tell his story.
As I stepped out of the shadow at the bottom of the stairwell, everyone fell silent. Hank and Ellis were nowhere to be seen, and other than Meg, I was the only woman in the room.
There were a dozen or so burly young men wearing khaki uniforms sitting at the tables, and about six older men in civilian clothes perched on stools at the bar. Every one of them was looking at me.
I girded myself, feeling the men’s eyes upon me, and hoping they wouldn’t think I was drunk as I made my way to the couch. Conall stared from his place by the hearth. He didn’t raise his head, but his eyes darted and his whiskered brows twitched as I approached. At the end, when I sank onto the couch, I realized I’d only been slightly offbalance. I further realized that I had taken the stairs without incident, and then, with some alarm, that what I had thought was ersatz tea was almost certainly medicinal. While I wasn’t happy about being dosed without my consent, I couldn’t deny it had helped.
Meg was behind the bar, her hair carefully arranged in a cascade of red curls. I remembered the bits of rag tied in her hair the night before, and wondered if I could figure out how to do that. My own hair, still damp from my bath, was back under a turban.
Her periwinkle dress hugged her figure, and her lips and fingernails were scarlet. It was hard to believe she worked at a sawmill. She looked like a redheaded Hedy Lamarr. If she was at all open to Hank’s advances, she didn’t stand a chance. Hank would never be serious about a barmaid. He was so slippery he could barely bring himself to be serious about Violet. I had to find a moment to warn Hank off, and wished I’d said something that very first night.
“Can I get you something, Mrs. Pennypacker?” she called over. “A half pint? Or perhaps a sherry?”
“Nothing right now, thank you,” I said, and at the sound of my voice the men exchanged glances. I didn’t blame them—surely they were wondering how and why an American woman had materialized in their midst. A hot flush rose to my cheeks.
A young man sitting at a table with a glass of beer called out in an accent as flat and un-Scottish as my own, “Canadian or American?” and I found myself staring back with equal surprise.
Before I could answer, the front door opened and an elderly man came in, leaning on a walking stick.
He said to the room in general, “There’s rain in it today.”
“Aye, Donnie, that there is,” said Meg from behind the bar. “A hauf and a hauf, is it?”
“Just a pint of heavy.” He made his way to the last empty barstool.
She pulled a glass from beneath the counter and held it under a beer spigot. “There’s game pie tonight,” she said, “so you can keep your ration book in your pocket.”
“Oh, that’s grand, Meg,” he said. He began to struggle out of his coat.
“Can I give you a hand?” she said, coming around to help.
“I’m in need of one, Meg, surely I am,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. His empty sleeve was pinned up against his shirt. As Meg took his coat away, he climbed onto the stool. He raised his glass and turned toward the room. “Slàinte!” he said.
“Slàinte!” Everyone, young and old, lifted his glass.
At that moment, Ellis and Hank burst through the door, cheeks ruddy with the cold, coats and hats wet.
“—so if the ad runs on Friday,” Ellis said, “we could potentially start getting responses on Tuesday. Meanwhile, we can revisit…the…” His voice petered out when he realized he was the center of attention.
Hank let his hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers like a cowboy ready to draw. Behind the bar, Meg picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the counter. Our black-bearded landlord appeared in the doorway that led to the back, wearing a heavy ribbed sweater in dark olive.
After a silence that seemed interminable, Old Donnie set his glass down and slid off his stool. He picked up his stick and hobbled slowly over.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
He stopped directly in front of Ellis. He was shorter by a whole head. He looked Ellis up and then down, and then up again, the skin of his neck stretching like a turtle’s as he strained to see Ellis’s face.
“You favor your father,” he finally said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Ellis, draining of color.
“The monster hunter. From ’thirty-four. I’m not that addled yet.” The broken capillaries in his face darkened. A fleck of spittle flew from his lips.
Meg’s eyebrows darted up, and she glanced at Ellis. Then she resumed wiping the counter.
“Now Donnie,” she said. “Come take a seat and I’ll get your pie.”
He ignored her. “I suppose it’s the monster you’re after, is it? Or are you going to float a balloon and take a snapshot like your old man?”
Ellis’s face went from pale to purple in a split second.
The old man spun and hurried toward his coat, his gnarled stick banging on the flagstones. “I’ll no be staying where this bastart is.”
“Did he just say what I think he did?” Ellis said. “Did he just call me a bastard?”
“If he wasn’t a cripple, I’d knock his block off,” said Hank.
“Your mammie’s his wife, then, is she?” said Old Donnie. “Only rumor has it he was an awful one for the houghmagandy.”
“Now, Donnie,” Meg said, sharply this time. “There’s no call for that. Come have your pie.”
“You’ll excuse the language, but there’s no other way to get to it,” the old man said indignantly. “The pathetic creutair, trying to make strìopaichean of honest girls up at the Big House, and not a shred of decency. And I don’t suppose anyone will help me with my coat.” This last was delivered as a statement, although he set his stick against the bar and straightened up, waiting.
Mr. Ross had been studying Ellis since Donnie’s initial proclamation, but now he came around the bar and helped the old man into his coat. Donnie picked up his stick and stomped dramatically to the door before turning and declaring, “I’ll not be darkening your door again, Angus. Not while this one’s in residence.”
Several seconds after the door closed behind him, someone said, “Well, I suppose Rhona won’t mind not having to come collect him at the end of an evening.” A swell of laughter rose, and the men returned to their conversations.
Meg came around the bar and put the radio on, fiddling with the lit dial until she first found Radio Luxembourg, with “Lord Haw-Haw” announcing in a perfect English accent, “Germany calling! Germany calling!”
She switched to static immediately, then moved the dial around until she finally found Bing Crosby, crooning about moonbeams and stars.
Ellis, whose face had finally settled on a terrible shade of gray, came and sat next to me.
“And that, my dear, is precisely why I used your maiden name,” he said through gritted teeth.
Our landlord was once again studying him.