Authors: Ann Turner
Fredelighavn stood for so much. The vision and bravery of those who’d formed it was extraordinary, given they were building in the most inhospitable place on earth. That they were so bright and yet so wrong in what they were doing at the Larvik Fishing Company was a tension that might create a fascinating quandary for tourists to ponder. The ignorance about whales could be compared to the ignorance about global warming; how people could be caught up in something they didn’t, and couldn’t, comprehend.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ said Helen. ‘You look a million miles away. Perhaps you need more coffee. If you go into the lounge room, I’ll bring some. But don’t go near the boxes.’
Nancy and I hurried in, eager for refreshment and more blueberry muffins.
‘I do hope you open up Fredelighavn,’ said Nancy. ‘I’d so love to go there.’
• • •
By the end of a very long day I knew a lot about the village but there was still no reference to tunnels. I’d scoured everything to do with the cinema and new bakery, the area where poor Peter had supposedly fallen through the ice, but there was nothing to indicate any underground structures. Of course they might not have told Helen the truth about where the boy had met his fate. If he had fallen through into a tunnel they might have wanted to keep her well away for safety. And if the family company owned everything, how much better did it seem that it was an accident of nature and not one of human negligence.
Helen declined Nancy’s invitation to dinner and so it was just the two of us who walked through the icy night back to Annie Coffin’s Inn. Nancy had left a chicken-and-tomato stew cooking slowly all day, and now its aroma filled the air, the homeliness bringing a prick of tears to my eyes. We ate rapidly, starving after our long hours of reading.
‘We’ll find those tunnels,’ said Nancy, as we turned in for an early night, ‘don’t you worry.’ Neither she nor Helen had asked further details about why a boy might have been in an ice cave. That was their way, it seemed. Helpful but not nosy. The opposite of my mother.
I quickly put my mother out of my mind as I hopped into bed. She’d emailed twice asking me to phone, and I was avoiding it. I couldn’t deal with listening to her endless string of woes at the moment. No doubt her university was still pressuring her to retire and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her they were right. Although that would give her more time to interfere in my life. On second thoughts, I hoped she’d keep her job.
Just as I was falling asleep my phone pinged. I thought it would be Georgia, who hadn’t yet returned my email – but it was Sam Wiltshire, from Harvard. He could meet tomorrow.
I emailed back and set a time for lunch.
• • •
The next morning, I wolfed down pancakes perfect with fresh lemon and sugar while Nancy promised that she and Helen would keep searching Erling’s papers in my absence. She didn’t pry about my dash to Boston.
The buildings of Main Street twinkled in the early light as Nancy walked me down the hill. We passed an old pharmacy with the original counter and chairs for soda pops, a true traditional drugstore; there was an inviting bookstore, and shops with enticing displays of sofas, snug woven rugs and island artwork featuring bobbing sailboats in the colours of the rainbow. It all spoke of cosy rooms waiting to be filled with beauty and ideas, just like the ones I was leaving for the day. I looked forward to coming home to dinner and hearing how Helen and Nancy had fared.
We walked past sturdy brick buildings centuries old and up onto Straight Wharf. A few tourists were queuing in a snaking line, waiting for the ferry. There was a small shop, already open, selling exquisite drink coasters of colourful yachts, painted by a famous local artist. They were just the type of thing my mother loved, and I made a mental note to buy a set on my way back. In spite of everything, I did like bringing Mum souvenirs, especially nautical ones that made her too-big house feel more homely.
‘I’d better love you and leave you,’ said Nancy as I took my place in the ferry queue. She pressed a shiny penny into my hand. ‘Throw this when you go past the lighthouse at Brant Point. It means you’ll be back. It’s good luck.’
I thanked her. ‘And happy hunting,’ I said.
Nancy grew serious. ‘I know it would take a weight off Helen’s shoulders if she felt she knew the truth about her brother after all these years. And if you’re right that there’s a boy down there now . . . Well, I’d better hurry, hadn’t I?’ She kissed me and hugged tightly. ‘It’s just the way we do things here,’ she said warmly.
Her hair bobbed in the breeze as she strode back towards town.
I boarded the ferry and went up to the top deck, through the cabin and outside to the stern. We drew away through calm water the colour of forget-me-nots, grey and white houses peeking through bare branches sweeping up the hill, and little cottages crowded around tiny wharves at the edge of the harbour echoing the soft silvery hues. The
Sankaty
was docked, loading up cars and goods to take to the mainland. Higher up, a white church with a golden steeple caught the morning sun.
As we passed the lighthouse I hurled my penny into the churning sea. I looked back at the sandy spit, yachts bobbing in the Sound behind, receding as we picked up speed. Nantucket had already taken a place in my heart.
At Hyannis I hired a car, and two hours later in Boston Sam and I were sitting near the harbour in Little Italy, hunched over bowls of pasta full of sweet seafood in a spicy sauce. After catching up on news of mutual friends, I came to the point.
‘I met a fascinating scientist on South Safety Island at the Alliance Base. Professor Andrew Snowden Flynt. People call him Snow. I was wondering if you knew him?’
Sam’s curly brown hair and thick eyebrows set off his bright, animated face. ‘Can’t say I do. Is he at Harvard?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. He was but he’s just left. I was curious to know why.’
Sam frowned. ‘That’s an odd question.’
‘I was quite taken by him.’
‘So you’re keen on him?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Still single, then?’
‘Yeah, tell me about it.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out. I’m guessing you want to contact him?’ Sam grinned.
I nodded, smiling. Amused, Sam picked up his phone and tapped a contact. After a while a man’s voice came on the end of the line. ‘It’s me, Sam. Just wondering if you had a number or an address for Snow Flynt?’
I listened but couldn’t hear what the other person was saying.
‘An old friend wants to pay him a visit.’ Sam winked. ‘Wants to take him some flowers to thank him for something he did for her.’ Sam pulled out a pen and wrote the address on a paper napkin, along with a phone number I knew I wouldn’t use. Some things must be done in person.
As he went to end the call, I signalled for Sam to ask why Snow had left Harvard. Luckily Sam was quick on the uptake and did my bidding. After he’d hung up he leaned forward eagerly. ‘He got a position down there in Antarctica. Chose to give up his professorship. It must have been a big promotion. Although, my mate hinted he may have left under a cloud. There was no farewell, just an announcement and a sudden departure. Not the usual fanfare and emeritus and all that. So I guess he’s not really even a professor any more. It’s not like he went to another university.’
I tried to take in what I was hearing but it was making my head spin. Sam passed across the paper napkin with the contact details.
‘You sure you want to follow him up?’ Sam’s dark eyes caught mine. ‘Harvard’s not the sort of place people leave like that.’
• • •
An hour later I was back on the road, heading to Cape Cod where Snow lived in the small community of Chatham.
I looked at the map on my GPS – Chatham was quite close to Hyannis, and lay 90 miles south-east of Boston. It stuck out on the right elbow of the Cape, just before the land hooked up to the stretch that led to Provincetown.
As I drove into Chatham I was struck by how pretty it was. Houses were traditional grey-shingled cedar with white windows; gardens were lush and neat as a pin, with towering trees, many bare-branched at this time of year. Their leaves had all been picked up, as if an army of elves were keeping everything in order, letting nothing fall out of place. It was designer heaven, and it had a surprisingly calming effect on me. If only life could be like this in reality. There was no litter, no tackiness. It was a truly genteel, pleasant place. And when I wound down my window, there was the tangy, revitalising smell of salt.
Snow’s house was past the commercial harbour, and through the town. In Main Street the stores were alluring: little jewellery shops, bookstores, cafes. Many were open, their lights ablaze in the darkening afternoon. From the map I could see that Snow’s place was perched on the water, overlooking the wild Atlantic Ocean.
Huge gulls flapped in the wind like white and grey mop- rags. I passed an extensive lighthouse complex that hosted the US Coast Guard; the lighthouse itself was a tall white beauty with a black top striking up into the grey sky.
The navigation misled me and I ended up in a dead-end, at a private marina. Boats were moored along a canal, and on the other side, vessels sat hoisted and housed on a dry dock. There were a couple of men in a shed, working on an engine.
I parked and braved an icy wind to ask for Ocean Street. A man in oil-stained overalls, eyebrows crusted with salt that was whipping off the sea, directed me. In two minutes I was driving slowly by the house of Andrew Snowden Flynt, past but not present Harvard professor. I couldn’t see much because it was hidden behind a green hedge and tall, established evergreen trees. The grey-tiled roof looked impressive and high. I reached the end of the street and turned around, cruising slowly past again. I still couldn’t get a proper view.
I pondered whether to drive up to the solid timber gates and press the intercom. But I needed to collect my thoughts, so I drove back to town, parked in Main Street and went into the lone cafe that was now the only one open. The town had shut quickly. It was already five o’clock and the last ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket was at six-thirty. It would take me at least half an hour driving down the Cape to get there. I couldn’t linger, but neither did I want to leave.
‘Can I help you?’ A waitress with dirty-blonde hair bunched into a ponytail took my order. I asked for a coffee, figuring I’d have plenty to eat when I got back to Annie Coffin’s Inn.
When she brought a steaming mug of dark liquid I asked for a recommendation for a place to stay, as I was planning to return tomorrow.
‘There’s a very good inn just off Main Street.’ She scrawled the name and directions on a coaster. ‘Highly recommended. What brings you to us?’
I thanked her and pocketed the coaster, wondering how much to give away; in a place like this everyone was sure to know everyone. ‘I’m just passing through, but while I’m here I thought I’d look up a friend. I don’t suppose you know him – Snow Flynt?’
Her face changed just a fraction, and her body tensed, but she covered with a broad smile. ‘Can’t say I do. He live here?’
‘Just down the road. I’m going to pay him a surprise visit.’
This time her face clouded over. ‘Uh-huh.’ She made herself busy and disappeared out the back. I checked my watch. I couldn’t miss the ferry, so I called goodbye and hurried through the freezing air to my car. From her sudden vanishing act, I suspected the waitress did know Snow – and didn’t like him.
17
N
ancy and Helen were waiting as I clanged down the gangplank into the misty night.
‘How was your day, dear?’ asked Helen, brimming with excitement.
‘You look like you’ve found something,’ I said, my own excitement growing.
They beamed.
‘A reference to tunnels,’ said Helen.
‘Two references, in fact. A few years apart,’ chimed Nancy.
I caught my breath. ‘Where?’
‘Well, we don’t know yet,’ Helen said. ‘Daddy didn’t exactly say where. But both times he said the tunnels were holding up well. That was in 1949 and 1952 – the last was just three years before my brother . . .’ Her voice trailed away. I linked my arm through hers as we headed up Straight Wharf.
‘Now we know the tunnels exist,’ I said, a thrill zipping through me. ‘That’s a huge step forward.’
But not enough – we urgently needed to know where the tunnels were.
‘Isn’t it just?’ said Nancy proudly.
‘It’s been strange going through Daddy’s things,’ said Helen as the old-fashioned streetlamps of Main Street came into view, golden haloes in the fog. ‘It brings him right back, you know. He had such a way with words. And to think of Fredelighavn after all these years. I was wondering, Laura, do you have photographs? I’d so love to see how it looks now.’
‘Of course.’ Although my report was confidential, the photos might jog Helen’s memory to reveal something useful. ‘I’ll bring them over.’
‘Tonight? We have dinner ready at my place.’ Her voice was light with anticipation.
‘You
have
been busy.’
‘We girls are good multi-taskers,’ said Nancy. ‘You go freshen up and then join us.’
Back in my room, I took out my camera and computer and assembled a slideshow of Fredelighavn. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I reconstructed the village.
• • •
After Nancy cleared the dishes we moved into the lounge and sat in front of the television. I plugged in my laptop and started the slideshow. The first image was of the flensing platform and the cookery sheds, because these were what Helen would have seen as she sailed in. She sat upright, absorbing everything. The next images were taken as I walked up a street of houses.
‘Could you tell me when we get to Ingerline’s place?’ I asked.
‘Not in this street,’ said Helen. ‘We’re going away from the harbour, so it’s further over to the left.’ My skin felt like it was being pricked with tiny needles. We were heading, house by house, towards the large pink and blue home with the gramophone where I’d seen the ghost of Ingerline in the mirror. ‘Stop!’ Helen cried as I reached it. She hunched forward and breathed in quietly. ‘That’s Daddy’s house.’