Bright Island Page 2

  “Well, I wouldn’t say settled,” her mother said judiciously. “After all, your father and I have got something to say about it.” The girls nodded vigorously. “I don’t know why these young people should want to add to their work by taking in an outsider”—(“Oh, no, mother Curtis, one of the family!”)—“but since they have offered we’d better think it over. Sit right down, Thankful.”

  Thankful sat down dazedly and looked at her father. He would certainly have no hand in this outrage. He stared thoughtfully out of the window. Her eyes followed his to the quiet graveyard. He knows what Gramp would have told them, she thought hotly. And it wouldn’t have been Sunday talk either! They wait until he’s out of the way before they try any of their tillie-vallie. The Scotch had words for things, as the children of Mary Curtis knew. Thankful watched her father’s gaze draw slowly back into the room and toward her. Now he would tell them, though not exactly in Gramp’s words, Thankful grinned, the way that Gramp would have settled such nonsense.

  The smile altered into tight-lipped listening. Could she believe her ears? What was he saying, her father who almost never said anything? She had never felt near to him, like Gramp, but these slow final words were pushing her away—away from everybody—she moved her head from side to side, and they were all against her. What was he saying!

  “It would be a very good thing for her. She’s run a bit wild on the island. But now father’s gone”—was he blaming her Gramp because she had been so happy with him?—“ ’bout time I guess that she found out what a girl’s for.” He spoke like a judge, impersonally. Thankful thought wildly, Who’ll help me now? Who can I go to? “School won’t be beginning for quite a while and I guess we can get her fixed up before September. What say, mother?”

  “Without a doot.” Mary Curtis rose briskly to get the berry pie. Thankful saw her chance and slipped out behind her mother. She heard her say, “Just give her a chance to get used to the idea and she’ll take to it like a trout to a burn,” and then the girl ran—ran as if the whole clan was after her. Even in her haste she did not forget to seize the gull’s dish of scraps. An upside-down world did not necessarily mean a hungry gull.

  The outgoing tide had left the dinghy high up on the beach. Thankful rushed it down into the water with such blind force that the waves splashed over the stern on the seat. She shoved the boat off with an oar and pulled herself with short furious strokes out to the Gramp. She flung herself aboard and made the dinghy fast to the mooring. “Clean dress ruined,” she noted, and pulled a pair of blue overalls, sprayed with dried salt, from the tiny cabin. The lame gull who had screamed from the moment she left the shore dug his head into the dish of scraps. Thankful cast off and slid down behind the tiller. The boat shot silently out of the cove into the sparkling outside water.

  The gull finished his scraps with noisy gulps and waddled over to the stern coaming where he could reach down and pull Thankful’s hair. She obeyed his demand for attention by absently rubbing his smooth feathers. After a while he clambered out to the bow where he perched like a figurehead drenched with spray. Sailing was next to flying.

  Thankful sailed on. Sailing was better than flying. You sat still and the clean water poured around you, and the sweet air washed you clean. No one could reach you. You were safe—for a while. Why couldn’t she get away from them all in her boat? Stock it up and slip away some bright day. And go on sailing and sailing, she and Limpy. He would like it, too. But Thankful was a sea captain’s granddaughter and she could not fool herself about the sea. Bright weather did not last, and neither did food. And a powerboat would soon drag her home again as it had this morning. This terrible day that had started out so gaily! The sunlit head went down on the tiller.

  But sails flap when they get no attention and, in spite of herself, Thankful had to watch the freshening breeze. Before long it did its work, stiffening her as it did the sails, pulling her erect and alert. The lee rail was where she liked it now, well under water. She stood braced against the tiller, the spray dashing salt mouthfuls into her face. The gull dipped and flapped his wet wings to keep his balance in the bow. Bright Island was far astern, its gleaming peak picking it out of the dark blue. Before long all those people would be gone and the island would be itself again, hers to live on as long as she pleased. And that would be forever. Her spirits lifted like the gull’s wings. Let them try to catch her, let them try to catch her. She whistled and sang and called to Limpy who found her more companionable now and hopped back to the stern to perch on her shoulder.

  Let them try to catch her, the song went all right until the Gramp finally had to go about and head in for home. Then it died out a bit and finally as the sun slid down behind the purple mountain there was no song at all. Thankful shivered though not from the quick cold that came with the north twilight. The gull was chilly and had huddled himself into the sheltered cockpit. Thankful made a long tack and rounded the point of the cove. She knew that Jed’s boat with its noisy passengers would have gone long ago, but she still felt a quick lift of heart at the empty bay. The Gramp slipped back to its mooring silently, just enough breeze left from sundown to take it home.

  By the time Thankful had her sail furled and the boat made shipshape for the night, yellow lights sprang from the kitchen windows. She picked up the sleepy Limpy who protested with ruffled wings, and dropped him into the dinghy. She rowed slowly this time, dipping her oars into the stars as she went. The gray peace of the house with the darkening sky bending over it soothed her fears. They could not take her away from Bright Island. It was her home.

  What’s a Girl For?

  Through the night her father’s words troubled her between her dreams. She would lie there in the cool dark listening to the faint splash of the incoming tide, half awake, half asleep, and suddenly she would hear her father’s voice instead of the touch of the water on the beach. Time she found out what a girl’s for. Sleep would not come then though usually she drifted off to the sound of the tide as if she were on her boat. Time she found out what a girl’s for.

  It wasn’t so hard to know what he meant. She ought to like to cook, and dust, and sew—she knew. She had heard him tell Gramp what he thought and had known only careless delight in the argument because Gramp’s word was the final one. His strong arm fended the others away from her, and left her free. She turned uneasily and stared out at the stars. Now she must fend for herself. And against so many!

  Toward morning she woke to a sense that partial surrender would be easier than complete. She made a sleepy vow and did not stir again until her father’s heavy step tramped down the narrow stair. The day had begun and she must make it count. For a moment she considered saving the time of her early swim, a crazy thing to do anyway, the girls said. Imagine jumping into that icy water first thing in the morning! Enough to make your heart leap right up into your head! Thankful reached for her scrap of wool sweater sewed up into a sort of suit. Things that the girls said were crazy could not be omitted. She would hurry.

  She raced through the kitchen where her mother lifted an amazed face from the fire she was laying in the stove. Out into the island morning. Aware all at once that mornings could never feel like this, clean and cold, except on islands. Unbreathed air! How could the boys leave it for the thick smell of the mainland? A whitethroat whistled at her.

  The water was cold, and it did make her heart leap, leap so that she sang as she poised on the tip of the high rock for a final plunge. Her body curved like a young moon and down she went to touch the sandy bottom of the cove. A moment to float with her face so close to the surface that the ripples closed her eyes. Then the swift hard crawl to the shore. Now the morning was well started no matter what the process of learning to be a girl meant.

  Helping to get breakfast, it meant first. Her mother seemed to be getting along very well without her and when Thankful offered to fry the bacon and eggs, said that it had taken her quite a while to find out just how a man liked them and, deftly turning a golden egg, perhaps she�
��d better keep on. Thankful could see how that was, and she set the table. Her body felt cool and light and she moved swiftly back and forth into the dining room. No, she wouldn’t get along without her morning swim.

  She skimmed the cream from a yellow-filmed pan in the cellarway and put the pitcher by her father’s porridge dish. One thing Mary Curtis had taught her family was that it was no breakfast without the good start of a dish of porridge. She stirred the cream down into her own tall glass of milk which was always set aside for her at the night’s milking. She poured her father’s great cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, and rang the bell for breakfast. She felt that she was doing very well indeed. Jonathan paid little attention to her. Haying had begun and there was no one to cut it but himself. He missed his boys most in the haying season. It had been a matter of no moment when he had those strong arms to help him. Thankful liked the work in the hayfield but she made her reluctant hands collect the pile of breakfast dishes, eggy, greasy—and hay was so warm and sweet! She whirled at her father’s voice, “I’ll need you in the field today. Sunday’s made a hole in my work. You can spread while I cut.”

  Off with the gingham dress, on with the overalls, out into the sunny field when she had thought of the day shut into kitchen walls. She would do the work of ten boys! Yet, Thankful jammed the prongs of her pitchfork into the stubble and leaned against it, was this learning what a girl’s for? Oh, well, it was her father’s own choice and who was she to find it faulty? Tomorrow she could try a bit of cooking but today he certainly needed her to pitch hay.

  All day she worked in the golden sunshine. The gull hopped about behind her, croaking at the prick of the sharp stubble and urging her to notice the fresh sailing breeze. But Thankful was content enough. When her arms ached she flung herself into a fragrant pile and shut her eyes against the sun which made glowing patterns on her lids. Over in the cool green of the spruces a hermit thrush sang, infinitely lovely. She listened to the notes deepen, lift, lift again, and thought no wonder the hermit chose to sing when all birds were silent.

  At noon another swift plunge which quickened her wet body into fresh vigor, a prodigious dinner, and then back into the fields until the shadows grew long across them. That was the way to spend a day, she thought drowsily over her supper, even if it had all been on the land. She liked working for Bright Island.

  Sleepily she heard her father telling her mother how much we had done, and that this weather wouldn’t last, the wind had turned southerly, that haze meant a fog out to sea, and then a rough jerk back into sharp awareness of her mother’s, “Well, and good, but who wished her more womanish in her ways? Does a hayfield help to soften a lass?”

  Jonathan grumbled uncomfortably and pushed back his chair. “She’ll soften fast enough on the mainland. Let her go to bed. She’s near asleep now. It’s been a hard day.” And he stumbled out to the porch and his pipe, taking her drowsiness with him. What could she do to please? What could she do? He would send her away because of the very work which helped him most. But the sun, and the wind, and the steady tossing of the hay had done something to her bewildered mind. It would not think, it would not feel, it would only sink down into the feather softness and dark of sleep. Thankful did not stir her straight and quiet length all through the night.

  The rooster crowed and crowed before Thankful heard him. She staggered like a sleepwalker down the beach and threw herself into the least cold-looking wave. The shock left no sleep in her tingling body. She leaped out of the water quicker than she had gone into it. Storm coming, she thought, and fog. Feels as if it had already got here! I can smell it coming!

  The sun had no cloud near it but Thankful did not need her father to tell her that the rest of the hay must go into the barn today. No question was raised about what she was to do that morning. In her overalls she hurried through a breakfast which her mother put before her as she served her father. Two eggs, a slice of home-cured ham, fried potatoes …”

  “You eat like a hired man,” her mother said.

  “Am as good as one,” returned Thankful but she stopped eating at once when her father pushed back his chair.

  They walked down to the barn together, the lean stooped man and the tall light-limbed girl. She looked as good as a hired man except for her mop of hair. Her father didn’t seem to mind having her along, she thought. She buckled the harness under the tired sagging belly of old Sparrow who got his name no one knew where unless it was from his dun color. Sparrow hated to start but he knew what Jonathan expected of him. His hoofs pounded out of the shadowy barn into the blazing sun, reluctant to stand in the heat all day and to drag the heavy overhanging loads of hay which was much better eaten on the spot. Thankful curled up in the empty rick and knew how he was feeling.

  Down the rutted track to the outer fields where the cut hay had lain longest. The cart swayed and bumped over the imbedded rocks that no man would ever try to smooth away. Almost to the headland that reached east into the sea. When Sparrow stopped, Thankful saw between the side rails of the cart the wide stretch of shining ocean. Nothing between us and Spain, her father often said. Nothing this morning except a whitish soft band of extra light which meant the fog was waiting for the tide to turn and bear it in to the land. Even in the hayfield she could hear the slash—slash—of the ocean rollers rushed into the gashed rocks by the sea wind.

  Whether it was the haste impelled by that pale threat outside, or tired muscles, or the cussedness of things as Jonathan himself said, Jonathan managed to get his foot under Sparrow’s stupid hoof. No bones were broken, he could tell by moving them, and he saw no reason why he should not go on pitching hay into the second load. But he leaned against the cart after each forkful, and then Thankful saw the queer color of his skin, gray under the mahogany. It was time for something to be done.

  He was easier to manage than she had expected. He sat up in the hay rubbing his foot and looking as if he would like to kill Sparrow. Thankful drove the old horse who went quite willingly in this direction. A small flock of sheep grazed across his path and scattered with silly bleats when Jonathan shouted at them. “Be stepping on them next,” he muttered.

  “You’ve done it now,” Thankful informed Sparrow from her perch above his tail. “Walk yourself into that barn.”

  Thankful saw her mother anxious, a surprising state to her. But Mrs. Curtis examined the foot rapidly and lifted a reassured face. “Keep off it a couple of days and I’ll have it as good as new with my bottle of arnica.”

  “And what about my hay, just ripe for the mow? As good as new that will be,” responded Jonathan sourly. “It’s a pity I have no sons!”

  Thankful sat hunched on the driver’s seat, her chin in her hands. Now’s my chance, she thought. If I could get that old hay stored away, he’d think I was some good. She looked at her mother for a suggestion but her mother was urging and pulling her father toward his chair on the porch. What’s hay to her, thought Thankful, or what becomes of me either. I can’t get that heavy stuff in alone.

  She sat there while Sparrow comfortably munched the dried clover from the stanchions. No use trying to get one of the boys. They were busy as minks about their own affairs. What’s hay to them either, she thought. I know, I’ll get Dave Allen. He’d rather make hay than can blueberries any day. I can get him in the noon hour!

  She leaped from the cart over to the porch almost in one long motion. “I could sail across to the factory wharf in no time.” She measured the wind along with Jonathan. A sail! A sail! After two days!

  “Aye, and have to beat back,” came unexpectedly from her mother.

  “Take the powerboat, if you must go,” said Jonathan grudgingly, “and crank her with care. We want no broken arm as well as a broken foot.”

  “It’s no break, and she can run the boat as well as you can,” she heard her mother reassure him as she raced down to her dinghy. After all a boat’s a boat even if it’s a powerboat, she thought. Limpy was there before her, scuttling along over the beach to re
ach a place in the dinghy before she could catch him. “He’s as dry as I am, the poor haymaker,” she said. “I’ll soak you down well. Get up there in the bow.” The gull was content.

  Thankful had to roll up the wheel three times before it caught. “Watching me from the porch doesn’t help,” she groaned from her knees as it finally fired. She had cast off first, and the onshore wind nearly had her aground. She could see that Jonathan wasn’t taking care of his foot now—he was perched like a stork on one leg as tense as a string. Thankful rounded out of the cove with a wide flourish.

  The trip was easy and swift. Dave was just beginning his lunch on the wharf, lounging in a group of men, most of them young like himself. Thankful cared little for them though they tossed scraps from their lunch to her gull. In her overalls she felt like one of them rather than of the giggling girls across the wharf. “Can you come, Dave?” She went directly to the point. “There’s hay to be made.”

  “Sure.” Dave tossed a crust over the edge of the wharf and Thankful caught the gull as he would have plunged for it. “Not yet, my lad,” and she reached for a handier piece of bread from the boys. “Just wait till I get my time.” Dave disappeared in the factory.

  “Go on, let me run her over.” Dave sprang after Thankful as she shoved off with a boat hook. “Haven’t had my hand on a wheel for longer’n I could count.”

  “Neither’ve I.” Thankful believed it. “But you can start her if you want,” she conceded. She wouldn’t care to try three times with that audience on the wharf.

  Dave rolled her up with one mighty swirl and slouched down into the stern. Out of his lunch box he took an immense sandwich which Thankful’s hunger could not endure. “Want one?” he asked. Thankful took its mate and passed the wheel over to Dave. You had to make some concessions.

  “Tell you what. I’ll eat half your lunch and then I won’t have to waste any time eating after we land.”