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Authors: Melanie Jackson
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permanently. I was about forty percent sure he was wrong, but there was no point in trying to deny that I was enjoying myself that morning and maybe the fantasy of living there—in the summer—crossed my mind a time or two.
Again, Harris set me up with a tab and suggested that I might like to schedule regular deliveries of perishables and fuel by ferry on Fridays, including the large bag of kibble, unless I needed it immediately. Feeling slightly cornered, but also amused by his maneuvering, I agreed to have a pint of milk and a half dozen eggs delivered every Friday. Additional items for an order could be phoned in on Thursday, Mrs. Mickle explained, and they would be added to the grocery box. Accounts were settled at the end of the month, unless the last day happened to fall on a Sunday. Then Monday was fine.
I also picked up some Gouda cheese, two postcards which I addressed to my coworkers and mailed immediately, and a Mrs. Crumpert’s blueberry pie.
By then it was after noon and I was feeling peckish . It may have scandalized Mike, but I ordered a hamburger instead of clam chowder with a donut for dessert. More pea soup was waiting for me at dinner and I wanted some large animal protein.
Harris and I chatted comfortably as we dined. I asked about Kelvin and he told me about some of my great-grandfather’s wilder inventions and ongoing feud with a local fisherman called Dandy Dawes who liked to set his bug pots (lobster traps) too close to the island. Kelvin considered everything within a hundred feet of shore to be his own private fishing ground and warned everyone else away. In the interest of peace, the Sands brothers had backed him up and Dawes was terrorizing lobsters elsewhere.
Though Harris didn’t come out and say anything directly, I got the feeling that Kelvin had been a law unto himself, a bit tyrannical even, and I wondered how far his eccentricities had gone. There had to be some reason for my grandmother’s willful amnesia about her early life, and an even better reason than any I had heard for her to run away and stay away until she died. I thought this also explained where my grandmother’s towering stubbornness had come from.
There was something else odd about the situation though. My great-grandfather had not been an idle man. He had invented a lot of things and tinkered with the house. But I got the impression that he had not exactly been a roll-up-the-sleeves and work from nine to five kind of man even in his youth. He wasn’t a fisherman or a lawyer or a carpenter. He hadn’t owned a store or painted houses.
In fact it didn’t sound like anyone in the family—since the pirate—had toiled and survived by the sweat of their brow. What had they done with their time? Where had the family money come from? How had they survived?
The contrast to my grandmother’s life—to my own life—couldn’t have been stronger.
Chapter 6
Harris insisted that I see the lighthouse, which was open to all visitors in spite of being overseen by the Canadian Coast Guard. It was very narrow and claustrophobic inside and I declined to go all the way to the top, knowing it would provoke my vertigo.
The clouds were gathering as we headed back for Little Goose and we had to work our way through the returning fishing boats. Everyone stared and nodded at me and most waved at Harris, though no one shouted any kind of introduction or greeting. Maybe bellowing at ladies was considered bad form.
The air as we neared Little Goose held the expectation of rain and I began looking east with regularity as the clouds thickened and roiled. Harris said this was normal weather for summer and that I would have to watch the sunset, which would be spectacular. I took comfort in his calm demeanor.
At my request we circled the island before docking. The sun was in the wrong place to have a great view of the house, which was mostly just a silhouette, but I got to see more of the island itself. The cliff that fell
Again, Harris set me up with a tab and suggested that I might like to schedule regular deliveries of perishables and fuel by ferry on Fridays, including the large bag of kibble, unless I needed it immediately. Feeling slightly cornered, but also amused by his maneuvering, I agreed to have a pint of milk and a half dozen eggs delivered every Friday. Additional items for an order could be phoned in on Thursday, Mrs. Mickle explained, and they would be added to the grocery box. Accounts were settled at the end of the month, unless the last day happened to fall on a Sunday. Then Monday was fine.
I also picked up some Gouda cheese, two postcards which I addressed to my coworkers and mailed immediately, and a Mrs. Crumpert’s blueberry pie.
By then it was after noon and I was feeling peckish . It may have scandalized Mike, but I ordered a hamburger instead of clam chowder with a donut for dessert. More pea soup was waiting for me at dinner and I wanted some large animal protein.
Harris and I chatted comfortably as we dined. I asked about Kelvin and he told me about some of my great-grandfather’s wilder inventions and ongoing feud with a local fisherman called Dandy Dawes who liked to set his bug pots (lobster traps) too close to the island. Kelvin considered everything within a hundred feet of shore to be his own private fishing ground and warned everyone else away. In the interest of peace, the Sands brothers had backed him up and Dawes was terrorizing lobsters elsewhere.
Though Harris didn’t come out and say anything directly, I got the feeling that Kelvin had been a law unto himself, a bit tyrannical even, and I wondered how far his eccentricities had gone. There had to be some reason for my grandmother’s willful amnesia about her early life, and an even better reason than any I had heard for her to run away and stay away until she died. I thought this also explained where my grandmother’s towering stubbornness had come from.
There was something else odd about the situation though. My great-grandfather had not been an idle man. He had invented a lot of things and tinkered with the house. But I got the impression that he had not exactly been a roll-up-the-sleeves and work from nine to five kind of man even in his youth. He wasn’t a fisherman or a lawyer or a carpenter. He hadn’t owned a store or painted houses.
In fact it didn’t sound like anyone in the family—since the pirate—had toiled and survived by the sweat of their brow. What had they done with their time? Where had the family money come from? How had they survived?
The contrast to my grandmother’s life—to my own life—couldn’t have been stronger.
Chapter 6
Harris insisted that I see the lighthouse, which was open to all visitors in spite of being overseen by the Canadian Coast Guard. It was very narrow and claustrophobic inside and I declined to go all the way to the top, knowing it would provoke my vertigo.
The clouds were gathering as we headed back for Little Goose and we had to work our way through the returning fishing boats. Everyone stared and nodded at me and most waved at Harris, though no one shouted any kind of introduction or greeting. Maybe bellowing at ladies was considered bad form.
The air as we neared Little Goose held the expectation of rain and I began looking east with regularity as the clouds thickened and roiled. Harris said this was normal weather for summer and that I would have to watch the sunset, which would be spectacular. I took comfort in his calm demeanor.
At my request we circled the island before docking. The sun was in the wrong place to have a great view of the house, which was mostly just a silhouette, but I got to see more of the island itself. The cliff that fell
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