Quoyle exhaled, slid his hand over his chin. A feeling they weren't talking about Bunny at all. But who, then? The conversation burned off like fog in sunlight.

[135] The aunt ate her fish, a tangle of bones on the side of the plate that the waitress called the devil's nail clippings.

Walked back to the shop. As they came along the sidewalk, through the window he saw the part in Mrs. Bangs's black hair as she bent over a chair seat prying out tacks with a ripping chisel.

"So," the aunt said. "It was good to talk about this. It's a shame, but I've got to stay in late tonight. We've got to tack off the banquettes. We've got to be done with the lot by next Tuesday, finished and installed. If you'll pick up the girls. And don't worry about Bunny. She's still a little girl."

But that had not stopped Guy. She had been Bunny's age the first time.

"Yes," said Quoyle, lightened and rived by a few seconds of happiness. Well, he would wait and see. Anything could happen. "Will you have supper in town or shall we have something for you?"

"Oh I'll just get a bite here. You go ahead. You'll need to get some milk and more ice for the cooler. Don't get all fussed over nothing."

"I won't," said Quoyle, "good-bye," leaning toward the aunt's soft cheek, faintly scented with avocado oil soap. She meant well. But knew nothing about children and the anguish they suffered.

16.

Beety's Kitchen "The housewife's needs are multifarious but most of her requirements are not peculiar and most of what she requires is to be found in the general cla.s.sifications."

THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS.

A FINE part of Quoyle's day came when he picked up his daughters at Dennis and Beety's house. His part in life seemed richer, he became more of a father, at the same time could expose true feelings which were often of yearning. part of Quoyle's day came when he picked up his daughters at Dennis and Beety's house. His part in life seemed richer, he became more of a father, at the same time could expose true feelings which were often of yearning.

The hill tilting toward the water, the straggled pickets and then Dennis's aquamarine house with a picture window toward the street. Quoyle pulled pens from his shirt, put them on the dashboard before he went in. For pens got in the way. The door opened into the kitchen. Quoyle stepped around and over children. In the living room, under a tinted photograph of two stout women lolling in ferns, Dennis slouched on leopard-print sofa cushions, watched the fishery news. On each side of him crocheted pillows in rainbows and squares. Carpenter at Home.

[137] The house was hot, smelled of baking bread. But Quoyle loved this stifling yeast-heat, the chatter and child-yelp above the din of the television. Sometimes tears glazed the scene, he felt as though Dennis and Beety were his secret parents although Dennis was his age and Beety was younger.

Dennis barely looked away from the screen but shouted at the kitchen.

"Make us some tea, mother."

The water faucet gushed into the kettle. A smaller kettle steamed on the white stove. Beety swept at the kitchen table with the side of her hand, set out a loaf of bread. Winnie, the oldest Buggit child, got a stack of plates. As Quoyle sat down Bunny threw herself at him as though he had just arrived from a long, dangerous voyage, hugged, rammed her head against him. Nothing wrong with her. Nothing. Sunshine playing spider with Murchie Buggit, her fingers creeping up his arm, saying tickle, tickle.

Sitting at the kitchen table with children in his lap, eating bread and yellow bakeapple jam, Quoyle nodded, listened. Dennis was deliberate with the day's news, Beety had the crazy stories that branched off into others without ever finishing.

The tablecloth was printed with a design of trumpets and soap bubbles. Dennis said he was disgusted; his buddy Carl had driven into a construction trench across the road up Bone Hill. He was in hospital with a broken neck. Beety put saucers of canned apricots in front of the children. Bunny lifted her spoon, put it down.

"Seems like he's marked. He's the one had a fright, eight, nine years ago. Turned his hair snow-white in a month. He was out fishing, see, with his brother near the Cauldron, and see this limp old thing lying in the water. He thought it was a ghost net, you know, broke loose and come up to the surface. So to it they goes, he gives a poke with his hook, and dear Lord in the morning, this great big tentacle comes up out of the water-" Dennis held his arm above his head, hand curved and menacing, "and seizes him. Seizes him around the arm. He says you never felt such strength. Well, lucky for him he wasn't alone. His brother grabs up the knife he was using to cut cod and commences sawing at that gripping tentacle, all muscle and the suckers clamped tight enough [138] to leave terrible marks. But he cut it through and got the motor started, his heart half out of his mouth expecting to feel the other tentacles coming down on his shoulder. They was out of there. The university paid them money for that cut-off tentacle. And now he busts his neck going into a ditch in the road. What's the point!"

Bunny down and whispering to Beety, getting the bacon from the refrigerator to show Quoyle. The famous bacon from the pig that Dennis had killed. Quoyle widened his eyes and raised his brows to show Bunny he was deeply impressed. But listened to Dennis.

"I never learned nothing about fishing from Dad. He loves fishing-but he loves it for himself. He tried to keep me away from it, tried to keep all of us off the water. It had the effect, see, of Jesson getting in with Uncle Gordon's crowd, and me just wanting to be on the water. Oh, I wanted to be a carpenter, right enough, but I wanted to fish, too," he went on dreamily. "Proper thing. There's something to it you can't describe, something like opening a present every time you haul up the net. You never know what's going to be in it, if it will make you rich or put you under the red line, sculpins or dogfish. So I wanted to fish. Because the Buggits are all water dogs, you know. All of us. Even the girls. Marge is a sailboat instructor in Ontario. Eva's the social director for a cruise ship. Oh, you can't keep us off the boats. But Dad tried his d.a.m.ndest."

"He was afraid for you."

"Yes, that. And it's like he knows something, like he knows something about the Buggits and the sea. Dad's got the gift. He knew when Jesson's boat went down, just like he knew where to go to find me when the Polar Grinder Polar Grinder was damaged. I'll never forget the time with poor Jesson. You know, Jesson was Mumma's favorite. Always was, from the day he was born." was damaged. I'll never forget the time with poor Jesson. You know, Jesson was Mumma's favorite. Always was, from the day he was born."

Quoyle knew how that was.

"Very sudden Dad got up from the table. He'd been sitting there beside the shortwave radio, we's all sitting there, and he said lesson's gone,' and went across the road to his shop-where the Gammy Bird Gammy Bird office is now-and stayed there by himself all night. [139] There was the northern lights that night, so beautiful you couldn't believe it, these colored strings shooting out, it was like a web. And in the morning there was these-well, like silver threads was on everything, rigging, houses, telephone wires. Had to come from the northern lights. And mother said it was Jesson's doing as he was in pa.s.sage from his earthly body." office is now-and stayed there by himself all night. [139] There was the northern lights that night, so beautiful you couldn't believe it, these colored strings shooting out, it was like a web. And in the morning there was these-well, like silver threads was on everything, rigging, houses, telephone wires. Had to come from the northern lights. And mother said it was Jesson's doing as he was in pa.s.sage from his earthly body."

"After Jesson, he started the paper, right?"

"About right. But you know, Dad don't really run Gammy Bird Gammy Bird, Tert Card does. The paper is there, you know, and he started it, he decides more or less what goes in it. But he'll phone in, make up some story about being sick, then go out fishing. Everybody knows what he's doing."

"Oh, he runs it," said Quoyle. "Tert Card dances his tune, I think."

"Eat your apricots, Bunny," said Beety, gathering empty saucers.

But Bunny whispered to Quoyle, "Apricots look like little teeny-weeny behinds, Dad. Little fairies' bottoms. I don't want to eat them." And sniveled.

While Dennis talked, a short, wrinkled man came to the doorway, leaned against the frame. He looked like a piece of driftwood, but for his mauve face. Wore a shirt spattered with hibiscus flowers the size of pancakes. Beety gave him a mug of tea, slathered marg on bread which the old man swallowed in one go.

"Alfred!" said Dennis. "Skipper Alfred, come on and sit down. This here is Quoyle, works at the paper. Comes back with Agnis Hamm to the old house on Quoyle's point."

"Yis," said the old man. "I remembers the Quoyles and their trouble. They was a savage pack. In the olden days they say Quoyles nailed a man to a tree by 'is ears, cut off 'is nose for the scent of blood to draw the nippers and flies that devoured 'im alive. Gone now, except for the odd man, Nolan, down along Capsize Cove. I never thought a one of the others would come back, and here there's four of them, though one's a Hamm and the other three never set foot on the island of Newfoundland. But the one I come to see is the carpenter maid."

[140] Dennis pointed at Bunny.

"So, you're the maid was goin' to put on the roof with your little hammer."

"I was going to help Daddy," whispered Bunny.

"Right enough. 'Tis very few that helps their fathers nowadays, lad or maid. So I've brought you a bit of encouragement, like." He handed Bunny a small bra.s.s square, the marks worn but still visible.

"You are thinking to yourself 'what is that thing?' Well, 'tis a simple matter. Help you make straight lines and straight cuts. With this and a saw and a hammer and some nails and a bit of timber you can make a hundred little things. I had it when I was your age and I made a box with a lid first thing, six pieces and two bits of leather for the hinges. Wasn't I a proud thing?"

"What do you say, Bunny?" hissed Quoyle.

"I want to make a box with a lid and two bits of hinges."

Everyone laughed except Quoyle, watching Bunny, who flushed red with mortification.

"Then," said Quoyle, "we'll say thank-you Skipper Alfred for the fine square and get off to home if there's going to be time for after-dinner carpentry." Had she heard what he said about the man nailed to a tree?

And in the car, made Bunny put the square flat on the floor in case of a catastrophic ditch in the road.

17.

The Shipping News "Ship's Cousin, a favored person aboard ship ..."

THE MARINER'S DICTIONARY

PHOTOGRAPHS of the Botterjacht on his desk. Dark, but good enough to print, good enough to show the vessel's menacing strength. Quoyle propped one up in front of him and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He had it now. of the Botterjacht on his desk. Dark, but good enough to print, good enough to show the vessel's menacing strength. Quoyle propped one up in front of him and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He had it now.

KILLER YACHT AT KILLICK-CLAW.

A powerful craft built fifty years ago for Hitler arrived in Killick-Claw harbor this week. Hitler never set foot on the luxury Botterjacht, Tough Baby Tough Baby, but something of his evil power seems built into the yacht. The current owners, Silver and Bayonet Melville of Long Island, described the vessel's recent rampage among the pleasure boats and exclusive beach cottages of White Crow [142] Harbor, Maine during Hurricane Bob. "She smashed seventeen boats to matchsticks, pounded twelve beach houses and docks into absolute rubble," said Melville.

The words fell out as fast as he could type. He had a sense of writing well. The Melvilles' pride in the boat's destructiveness shone out of the piece. He dropped the finished story on Tert Card's desk at eleven. Card counting waves, fidgeting through wishes.

"This goes with the shipping news. Profile of a vessel in port."

"Jack didn't say anything to me about a profile. He tell you to do it?" His private parts showed in his polyester trousers.

"It's extra. It's a pretty interesting boat."

"Run it, Tert." Billy Pretty in the corner rapping out the gossip column.

"What about the ATV ATV accident? Where's that?" accident? Where's that?"

"That's the one I didn't do," said Quoyle. "Wasn't much of an accident. Mrs. Diddolote sprained her wrist. Period."

Tert Card stared. "You didn't do the one Jack wanted you to do and you did one he don't know you did. h.e.l.l, of course we'll just run it. Proper thing. I haven't seen Jack in a flaming fit for a long time. Not since his fishing boot fell onto the hot plate and roasted. Tell you what, you better leave your motor running when you come in tomorrow morning."

What have I done, thought Quoyle.

"Don't get your water hot about Edith Diddolote. She's in Scruncheons with her sprained wrist and her fiery remarks." Billy's diamond pattern gansey unraveling at the cuffs. The blue eyes still startled.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, about time you got here. Billy's up at the clinic getting his prostate checked and Jack's on his way down. He wants to see you." Tert Card snapped open a fresh copy of the Gammy Bird Gammy Bird. Shot black looks from his gledgy eyes. At his desk, Nutbeem lit his pipe. The smoke came up in white b.a.l.l.s. Outside the window fog and a racing wind that could not carry it away.

"Why?" said Quoyle apprehensively. "Because of the piece?"

[143] "Yep. He probaby intends to tear your guts out for that Hitler yacht piece," said Tert Card. "He don't like surprises. You should have stuck to what he told you to do."

The roar of the truck engine, the door slam; Quoyle went sweaty and tense. It's only Jack Buggit, he thought. Only terrible Jack Buggit with his b.l.o.o.d.y knout and hot irons. Reporter Bludgeoned. His sleeve caught on the bin of notes and papers on his desk; paper sprayed over the desk. Nutbeem's pipe twisted in his teeth, tipped out a nugget of burning dottle as he unkinked the telephone cord by letting the receiver hang low and spin. Looked away.

Jack Buggit strode in, ginger eyes jumped around the room, stopped on Quoyle. He hooked his hand swiftly over his head as though catching a fly and disappeared behind the gla.s.s part.i.tion. Quoyle followed.

"All right, then," said Buggit, "This is what it is. This little piece you've wrote and hung off the end of the shipping news-"

"I thought it'd perk the shipping news up a little, Mr. Buggit," said Quoyle. "An unusual boat in the harbor and-"

" 'Jack,' " said Buggit.

"I don't have to write another one. I just thought-." Reporter Licks Editor's Boot.

"You sound like you're fishing with a holed net, shy most of your shingles standin' there hemming and hawing away." Glared at Quoyle who slouched and put his hand over his chin.

"Got four phone calls last night about that Hitler boat. People enjoyed it. Mrs. Buggit liked it. I went down to take a look at it meself and there was a good crowd on the dock, all lookin' her over. Course you don't know nothin' about boats, but that's entertaining, too. So go ahead with it. That's the kind of stuff I want. From now on I want you to write a column, see? The Shipping News. Column about a boat in the harbor. See? Story about a boat every week. They'll take to it. Not just Killick-Claw. Up and down the coast. A column. Find a boat and write about it. Don't matter if it's a long-liner or cruise ship. That's all. We'll order your computer. Tell Tert Card I want to see him."

But no need to say anything to Tert Card who heard everything [144] over the part.i.tion. Quoyle went back to his desk. He felt light and hot. Nutbeem clasped both hands over his head and shook them. His pipe twisted. Quoyle rolled paper into the typewriter but didn't type anything. Thirty-six years old and this was the first time anybody ever said he'd done it right.

Fog against the window like milk.

18.

Lobster Pie "The lobster buoy hitch ... was particularly good to tie to timber."

THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS.

THE BOY in the backseat had plenty to say in wide, skidding vowels that only his mother understood. Quoyle got the sense, though; adventures ran through Herry's talk, a kind of heady exultation in such things as a blue thread on his sweater cuff, the drum of ocherous rain into puddles, a cookie in a twist of tissue. Anything bright. The orange fishermen's gloves. He had a wild sense of color. in the backseat had plenty to say in wide, skidding vowels that only his mother understood. Quoyle got the sense, though; adventures ran through Herry's talk, a kind of heady exultation in such things as a blue thread on his sweater cuff, the drum of ocherous rain into puddles, a cookie in a twist of tissue. Anything bright. The orange fishermen's gloves. He had a wild sense of color.