Saturday morning dawns grey and cold. It has rained heavily in the night and the gunmetal cast of the sky means the clouds are not quite spent. But no amount of inclement weather can quell the anticipation amongst the crowd gathered along the parade route. Noble scans faces, on the lookout for Lillian. Having slept all through yesterday and the Friday night lending library, he’s anxious to speak with her about the Elinor Glyn books. It was a nice idea, but he’s sending them back. They mostly deal with photoplays, and after reading her fiction he knows she doesn’t practice what she preaches. And anyway, he’s already culled her best advice: “write in a simple manner about plain, ordinary events of every-day life.”
He heads over to the food pavilion, thinking he might find Lillian there. Instead he spots Jem eyeing the cake table. A furtive glance around. No Mary. No Butler. He approaches the boy.
“Hey, Jem. Remember me?”
“Hello, Mr. Matheson.”
“What adventures have you been up to lately?”
“Nothing much. Uncle John has a shiner just like yours.”
“He promised me another story, you know. About pirates and buried treasure.”
Noble shoves his hands in his pockets. “Speaking of pirates, you haven’t seen any wandering around, have you?” He still expects to find Spoon lurking around the next corner. Butler insists that Spoon no longer poses a threat but he won’t elaborate, and Noble can’t find the words to form the next question.
“I don’t know. What do pirates look like?
“Well, this particular one wears a jacket with dirty old spoons for his buttons, and he has a big red mess of boils on his face.”
Jem wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.
“Listen, Jem” — the sensation of the boy’s name on his lips makes him light-headed — “here’s fifty cents.” Jem’s eyes grow round as Noble hands him two quarters. “I want you to keep an eye out for this pirate I was just telling you about. And if you see him hanging around I want you to come and tell me, and I’ll give you another fifty cents. Is that a deal? It’s a deal, Mr. Matheson.”
“Shake on it.” Jem holds out his hand. “And you’re not to tell anyone about our deal. Are we agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Off you go then. And remember. Shh.” He raises his finger to his lips and Jem follows suit, then disappears into the crowd.
“He’s a lovely boy.” Noble startles. Sarah’s voice by his ear. “He reminds me a lot of Lawson at that age, don’t you think?”
Noble looks at his mother to find her regarding him keenly. She holds his gaze, long and steady. Eventually he has to look away.
“You should lend him that Treasure Island book of yours. I make it’d be some kind of tale a boy his age would enjoy.”
“He’s a bit young yet for Treasure Island, Mumma.” Can she hear his words above the clamouring of his heart? “And I’m not sure his mother could read it to him without butchering the story.”
“What about his father, then? You think he could read it to the boy?”
Nobles shuffles his feet in the wet grass. “In a couple of years or so he’ll be able to read it himself.” And by then Noble may well have his own story for Jem. A story that will begin with the two white feathers.
Hetty Douglas yawns as she stands in the damp air surveying the back garden. Her neck aches and her eyes feel gritty. She has slept little these past two nights, twitching awake at every rogue sound in the night, worrying that Spoon might suddenly appear at the foot of their bed, brandishing a cutlass. She wants to ask Peter if they can get a dog, but he has assured her time and again that he’s dealt with Spoon’s type before, and anyway the man is more likely across the border already or halfway back to England than creeping around the village.
Her flowery dress touches the mud as she bends to peer more closely at the damp surface of the fresh earth. Peter, smart in his dress uniform, steps from the back door to stand beside her. Shadow raises her head and trots to the gate, where she nickers at her master.
“It’ll be at least a week before any of those seeds are up,” he says.
Hetty’s shoulders tense. “But it’s been warm these past few days.”
“Not warm enough.”
A sigh. “I was just looking, that’s all.”
“They’ll be out when they’re good and ready. And then you’ll have to keep an eye out for weeds. You let them get too big, they’ll choke your seedlings before they have a chance.”
“My seedlings? From your mother’s seeds? They wouldn’t dare.”
“Very funny. Are you ready to go?”
Straightening, she catches the tiniest hint of green. A curled green sprout — one of the peas — just breaking the surface. She smiles to herself.
“Then shall we?” Peter returns the smile and takes her hand. Hetty is at first too surprised to resist. But she stays her impulse to pull away and lets herself be led towards the village green, acutely conscious of her left hand clasped in her husband’s right. If Peter has noticed that the wedding band pressing against his fingers is not the same ring he slid on Hetty’s finger a year ago, he’s keeping that knowledge to himself.
The sky is darkening, the weather will not hold. Whitecaps are breaking the surface of the Minas Basin waters, which have turned to pewter. The dogfish are happy and fed. And in the V of the weir, already half buried in the shifting sand, is a handful of silver teaspoons. The hallmarks on their necks are almost obscured by tarnish and grime. But there isn’t a person who, having seen them before, would at once fail to recognize them.