Looking at the Moon (2 page)

“Norah, Norah!” Janet was leaning over the bow screaming her name. The spray flew into her mouth, making her choke. Flo pulled her back and waved.

All summer Aunt Florence had nagged at Norah to smile more often. Now she grinned so hugely her cheeks felt as if they were cracking. There had been “cousins” in Vancouver, but they were all boys and not very friendly. Flo and Janet were like real cousins. Sometimes Flo seemed distant—she was seventeen—but Janet was only a year older than Norah.

As soon as the launch putted up beside the dock, Janet leaped out and grabbed Norah, whirling her around. “Oh,
Norah,
you've finally come! It's been so boring without you!”

“Hi, kiddo,” smiled Flo, tying up the boat efficiently. “Thank goodness you're here—now I can get this pesky sister out of my way.”

“Your hair's longer!” cried Janet. “I like it. Do you like
mine? I put it in pincurls now.” Janet's hair was a blonde fuzz that emphasized her fat cheeks. She hugged Norah again, then controlled her excitement as the aunts and Gavin, loaded down with bags of groceries, came out of the store.

“Hello Janet, hello Florence.” The cousins were kissed and exclaimed over. Gavin beamed up at everyone, his eyes the same bright blue as the water.

“You might have helped us carry these, Norah,” said Aunt Florence. Norah ignored her as they all found places in the long boat. She ran her hands over its mahogany sides and leather seats. The launch was called
Florence
—not after Aunt Florence but after her mother. But Norah thought it suited her guardian to have the same name as the luxurious boat, whose luminous wood, thick glass windscreen and shiny brass all glittered with importance.

She watched carefully as Flo turned the key to start the ignition. Only the older teen-agers were allowed to drive the
Florence,
but you could run the smaller launch by yourself when you turned thirteen. She hoped the grown-ups would remember that before she had to remind them.

“Isn't it great to be back?” whispered Gavin. He leaned against Norah and the two of them threw their faces back to drink in the spray, keeping watch for their first glimpse of the island.

A
LL OF THE DRUMMOND CLAN
were on the dock to greet them. Aunt Florence stepped out regally and accepted the
homage of her sisters, brother, in-laws, nieces and nephews as if she were their ruling monarch—which, being the eldest, she was. Norah barely noticed which of the crowd of grown-ups was kissing her. She was too busy taking in the white dock, the grey boathouse with its fancy railing and, best of all, the circular cottage waiting above.

“
Bosley!
Look, Norah, he remembers me! Wave, Boz!” Uncle Reg's black-and-white springer spaniel had bounded onto the dock and leapt at Gavin. Then he lifted one of his paws in greeting while everyone laughed.

Norah kicked off her shoes, wriggled through the excited group and ran up to the cottage. The stone steps were cool and rough under her tender feet. She dashed into the kitchen.

“Hanny! We're back!”

Hanny, Aunt Florence's cook in the city, turned around from the stove and opened her arms. Norah ran into them and their noses collided. They both laughed.

“Norah, what a treat to see you again! Did you have a grand trip? I got all your postcards, and Gavin's too—where is he?”

“Down at the dock, still being kissed,” grinned Norah. She circled the spacious kitchen, grabbed a cookie off a plate and plopped herself on top of the old pine table, munching noisily.

“Not before dinner and no sitting on my clean table,” said Hanny automatically, but her lined face still smiled. “Oh
my,
I've missed you all this month—even Mrs. O! The family seems rudderless without her here.”

“How is Mr. Hancock?” asked Norah politely. Hanny's husband was retired, but he always came up with her in the summers to help out.

“Having a nice, lazy time as usual. He gads about fetching mail or taking your uncles fishing, while I slave away in a hot kitchen. Though I must say your aunts are very helpful.” Hanny pushed her untidy hair under its net and turned back to the stove. “Now, Norah, it's lovely to see you but we'll have to talk later. You're all eating together this evening—all twenty of you!—and I'm not nearly ready. You'd better skedaddle—unless you'd like to peel some carrots.”

Norah left quickly in case Hanny meant it. Before the family came in she made a swift inspection of the rest of the cottage: up the stairs and down the slippery hall, peeking into each of the huge bedrooms, then through the sunny dining room into the living room.

Nothing had changed; nothing ever did. Old photographs dotted the panelled walls. Cups from regattas, faded rugs and comfortable wicker furniture filled the dim space. A faint smell of wood smoke came from the massive stone fireplace. In an alcove beside it was the same wooden puzzle that had been there for years, its pieces scattered on a small table. Above it was Aunt Florence's mother's collection of china cats, and the knot board where all the children, including Norah, had learned to tie knots.

Norah ended her tour on the verandah, her favourite part of the cottage. She ran all around its wide circumference, then leaned against one of its thick cedar posts
and watched the clan parade up the steps—as if she, not Aunt Florence, were the ruler of Gairloch.

Surely, the black cloud of angry misery that had hung over her almost constantly since she had turned thirteen would now dissolve.

2

The Cousins

T
he long evening meal was over, the younger children had gone to bed, and the two generations of aunts and uncles, whom Flo had long ago christened “the Elders,” were relaxing in the living room.

Norah sat on the rug opposite Janet, her calm mood already vanished. She was trying to concentrate on a game of slapjack, but inside she seethed at what Aunt Mar, her least favourite Elder, had just said to her in the kitchen.

“Look how you've grown, Norah! You'd better ask Aunt Florence to buy you a brassiere before school starts.”

How dare she make personal remarks like that! At least the two of them had been alone, bringing out the dessert plates.

Norah tugged angrily at the skirt Aunt Florence had made her change into. The Elders changed for dinner every night, but the children only had to when they had what the younger cousins called a Big Dinner together.

It wasn't dark yet and Norah hadn't even had time to explore. She kept glancing out at the beckoning evening. Finally she couldn't bear to be inside a moment longer.

“I'm going for a walk,” she whispered to Janet. She slipped out of the room and ran down to the boathouse to change. Comfortable again in slacks, an old shirt and bare feet, Norah strode along the shoreline path that circled the island. A chipmunk skittered out of her way and soft pine needles crunched under her feet.

Soon she reached the tiny log cabin that was the children's playhouse. No one seemed to have used it since she and Janet, with Bob and Alec—cousins on the Ogilvie side—had called themselves the Hornets and pretended the playhouse was a gangsters' hideaway. But this summer Bob and Alec hadn't come.

Four yellow-and-black striped masks hung on nails inside the door. Norah closed it quickly. It seemed much longer than a year ago that they had played that silly game.

Beyond the playhouse was the babies' beach. Norah rolled up her pant legs and paddled, her feet stirring up silt. The bay was so shallow that it looked brown, every ripple of sand showing through its crystal surface.

Her next stop was the gazebo perched on a rocky point at the far end of the island. An empty cup and saucer had been abandoned on the bench inside. Norah knew she should take them back to the kitchen, but that would slow her down.

She passed the windmill which pumped up water for the tank behind the cottage. Then she cut through the woods in the middle of the island, weaving through tree trunks and ferns until she reached a clearing. Here stood
two extra cabins for overflowing family and guests. Behind them was Norah's favourite place on the island, the high rocky promontory that overlooked it all. Her feet reached for the familiar footholds as she scrabbled up the rock to the level platform on top. There she collapsed, panting and sweaty.

She ran her hands over the streaky pink rock and gazed down at the massed green foliage beneath her. Beyond it stretched the lake. Clumps of land—other islands and long fingers of mainland—broke up its flat expanse.

Vast as it was, this lake was the smallest of three huge ones that were joined together by narrow ribbons of water. But their lake was the deepest, Norah thought with satisfaction, and the most beautiful. She never tired of watching its colour change from silver to blue to green. Now its surface reflected the pink-tinged sky. The slanting light picked out each rock, tree and wave.

Norah let out a relieved breath—finally she was alone.

Her first encounter with the Drummond clan each summer was always overwhelming. Ten adults and eight children were here this month and they were all related. Norah had heard the expression “blood is thicker than water”; Ogilvie and Drummond blood seemed thicker than most. Over the summers she had grown used to the family's established rituals, jokes and conflicts. She knew as well as all the cousins that Aunt Bea was shrill and giddy because she resented Aunt Florence being the eldest, and that Uncle Reg played practical jokes on his two sisters whenever he had the chance.

But although the family was always warm towards their two war guests, Norah often felt as though they belonged to an exclusive club she and Gavin could never join. Every once in a while the family shared something that excluded them. This evening, for example, they had all started talking about Andrew, an unknown cousin who was supposed to arrive tomorrow. Andrew's funny expressions when he was four, the time he ran away and hid under the canoe when he was eight, the plays he made up … all through dinner they had discussed him.

But Aunt Mar's rude comment had been much worse than the chatter about Andrew. Norah knew she needed a brassiere; she just couldn't bring herself to ask Aunt Florence for one. And anyway, shouldn't Aunt Florence notice for herself and suggest it?

It was difficult to believe that the two mounds on her chest, that had appeared almost overnight, really belonged to
her
. This last year she was sure her nose had grown as well. It seemed to fill up her whole face like a beak.

Dad had a nose like that—but it didn't matter on a man. Thinking of Mum and Dad produced the usual small ache, like prodding a sore spot. When she and Gavin finally went back to England, would her parents recognize this new person with a beaky nose and breasts like a woman's?

One day in the spring, as she was waiting nervously to attend her first mixed party, Norah had asked Aunt Florence if she was pretty. She knew Aunt Florence would tell her the truth; she didn't believe in false flattery.

“You are when you smile,” was the brisk reply.

That meant she
wasn't
pretty, for if she always had to smile to enhance her looks, she couldn't be. It was also an infuriating way for Aunt Florence to get in some advice, instead of just answering the question.

Now she scraped away lichen from the rock. Why wasn't the magic of Gairloch making her troubles disappear, the way it usually did?

Tired of her own thoughts, Norah slithered back down the rock. She would go and check on Gavin. All of the boys except the two youngest ones slept in half of the old servants' quarters behind the cottage. The Hancocks slept in the other half. Norah poked her head into the large room that the family called the “Boys' Dorm.” With Bob and Alec away, only three small boys, Peter, Ross and Gavin, occupied cots. All three were fast asleep.

Norah went in and bent over Gavin. As usual he clutched “Creature,” his toy elephant, in his fist. She covered him up more closely. Even though the gentle little boy was everyone's favourite, the family accepted that Norah was the one who was really responsible for him. She had never forgotten how she had neglected that responsibility when she'd first come to Canada. Now her love for Gavin was the most constant element in her life here.

She heard laughter coming from the water's edge; the others must have already gone to bed. Norah wished she could go straight down to the boathouse, where all the girls slept, but one of the family rituals was saying good-night.

Aunt Anne and Uncle Gerald, who stayed in one of the cabins with their two youngest children, had already
retired. The rest of the Elders were playing bridge.

“I'm going to bed now,” Norah announced.

“I was just going to call you,” said Aunt Florence. “What were you doing out there all by yourself? Janet was upset you left so abruptly.”

Norah shrugged. On the first night back at Gairloch you were expected to kiss everyone. Dutifully she made her rounds. “Good-night Aunt Florence … Aunt Mary … Aunt Catherine … Aunt Bea … Aunt Dorothy … Uncle Barclay … Uncle Reg … Aunt Mar.” Whew! Eight kisses, some on papery cheeks or rough skin that needed a shave.

She fled to the toilet, then down to the dock. The boathouse was built directly over the lake. On this side of the island the water was so deep that the boats could be driven right into their slips, like putting a car in the garage. Before she went up the stairs, Norah paused to admire the family's fleet. Inside, the
Florence
bobbed beside the smaller launch—the
Putt-Putt
—and the heavy old rowboat. The sailboat was moored outside and the canoe was overturned against a wall.

She looked for her mug and toothbrush on the shelf built under the window. It was in the same place it had been last Thanksgiving. Norah brushed her teeth vigorously and cleaned the brush in the lake. Ignoring the bar of soap beside the mug, she splashed her face and dried herself with the fresh towel waiting for her on her hook.