Stormy Cove (4 page)

“Oh, we know,” the baroness said. “We know that already. They see old Second World War films made in Hollywood, of course, and that’s their idea of Germans.”

“Well, I don’t suppose many Newfoundlanders have been to Germany,” Lori interjected politely and then wondered if she sounded condescending. She quickly added, “And probably not many Germans have traveled to Newfoundland until now.”

“Unfortunately, some Germans were here once and they didn’t make a good impression,” the baroness said, taking hold of her husband’s arm as if to confirm it. “During the War, German submarines did quite a lot of harm, didn’t they, Rudolf? You know more about it.”

Lori concentrated on her meat, but couldn’t avoid hearing the conversation. Furthermore, the baron’s eyes were always on her when he wasn’t drinking his beer. His gaze was friendly.

“Yes, interestingly enough, Newfoundland was one of the few places in North America attacked by submarines,” he said. “They caused a lot of damage on Belle Isle even though they were under artillery fire.”

“When did the attacks take place?” asked Hope, who had joined her guests at the far end of the table.

“In 1942,” the baron responded. “The Nazis were targeting the iron mines on Belle Isle. They had maps of the island because Germany had imported iron ore from there before the war. They sank two freighters, if I remember correctly.”

“Don’t forget about the sinking of the SS
Caribou
,” someone said.

Now everybody started talking at once. Lori learned that a passenger ferry was fired on by a German sub and over a hundred people, mainly civilians, went down with it.

“That’s news to me,” a man said who was out of Lori’s sight. “I never imagined that the Germans sent submarines to Newfoundland, of all places.”

“Why not? After all, Canada had declared war on Germany,” another guest said.

The table pounced on the man for forgetting that Newfoundland wasn’t actually part of Canada in 1942, but was, in effect, still a British colony. Lori felt sorry for him.

His tablemates bitterly reminded him that Newfoundland hadn’t held a referendum on becoming Canada’s tenth province until 1948 and became the tenth province the next year. Apparently, it was a decision that some at the table still regretted, and they continued arguing about it until dessert.

“Well, we certainly stirred the pot,” the baron said, winking at Lori.

“Yes, you and your historical digressions,” his wife joked, though she’d brought up the subject.

The men suddenly got up and left the table, with friendly good-byes. Hope escorted them to the door.

“If anyone around here is a spy, it’s them,” the baron remarked.

Lori gave him an inquiring look.

“They’re here looking for something, and I bet it’s oil.”

Lori knew there were oil rigs off the south coast of Newfoundland, but was there oil up here in the North?

“They don’t tip their hand; everything’s top secret. But the oil companies watch one another like hawks, believe you me. The competition for oil is no tea party.”

He acted as if Lori knew precisely what he meant.

Hope returned. “Somebody wants to see you, Lori. Can you come right now?”

It sounded like an order.

Lori gave an involuntary shudder, as if there was something to fear.

“Excuse me,” she said to the German couple.

On the way out, she whispered to Hope, “Who is it?”

“A cop.”

CHAPTER 5

The policeman turned toward her as she came into the hotel office. He was younger than she was, squat, with a little paunch, and his jaw was working some chewing gum. He greeted her with a nod.

“You’re traveling through this region?”

Lori said yes.

“This your first time?”

“Yes. Why?”

She couldn’t hide her uneasiness.

The officer bobbed up and down on his toes.

“We just want to inform tourists that four polar bears have been sighted along this coast. The game wardens will track ’em down and anesthetize ’em. We’ll then take ’em out by helicopter.”

“Oh my God,” Lori exclaimed. “Somebody at dinner said something about polar bears, but I hoped it was a joke.”

The officer grinned.

“No, it’s not a joke. A couple of ’em show up here every few years, but right now we just know about these four. It’s pretty unusual. Are you planning to go to Stormy Cove?”

“Possibly,” said Lori, on her guard once more.

“Two of ’em are over that way. One was nosing around some houses yesterday. Some people put out bait for coyotes, and that attracts the bears. Just be on the lookout. Polar bears aren’t afraid of anything.”

Lori was tempted to say that the best thing that could happen to her was a polar bear trapped in her lens.

Instead she said, “I appreciate your taking the trouble, but please excuse the question: Did you come here just to tell me that?”

The policeman stopped chewing for a moment.

“Wouldn’t our men in Vancouver do the same?” He cleared his throat. “This is rough country here. Last winter a man went for a walk and was never found. Just be sure and use common sense.”

Vancouver. So word really had gotten around.

“Of course,” she confirmed. “Thank you very much.”

All that evening, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the policeman wasn’t warning her about polar bears. So what was the warning really about?

She couldn’t get to Stormy Cove fast enough.

When she’d driven for an hour and a half the next morning and reached the turnoff for the coast, the first rays of sunshine broke through the overcast sky. The heavy, dull snow that had blanketed the landscape the day before now sparkled in the sudden glare. Lori was amazed by the high drifts that the steady, inexorable wind had piled up. Even in all that white, she could sense the hard, rough lay of the land. Trees poking halfway out of the snow looked like scrubby, bony creatures that existed only to struggle. A topography that threatened to swallow you up; nothing but hill after hill and no point on the horizon for Lori to get oriented. She knew a place like this would not forgive mistakes.

After another fifteen minutes on the road, she still hadn’t seen a single house. But then she saw something moving out of the corner of her left eye. A snowmobile came up over the hill, pulling a sled filled with wood. The driver turned his head toward her for a second, but she couldn’t see his face through the visor. Then the vehicle departed as quickly as it had come. Lori felt like she’d been on the high seas for weeks, and then suddenly birds appeared, indicating land was near.

And indeed, the first building appeared around the next corner. A white cube with slits for windows. The other houses had similar spyholes, and only a few were green or ochre, as if people were forced to use paint sparingly. The firehouse, though, was painted bright yellow, overshadowing the white Anglican church. The signboard out front announced, “Jesus Is Crazy about You.” The melody of the pop song “Crazy about You” floated through her mind. Lori had always believed that schmaltzy lyrics reflected human feelings rather accurately, often better than literature.

She was hoping to locate a village store, but the road brought her to a little fishing harbor. Two boats were off to the side, set up on iced-over wooden beams as if they were asleep. Three small boats lay keel up on the shoulder of the road. Lori got out to survey the half-moon of Stormy Cove Bay and a dozen houses on the shore. Another dozen bordered the access road and dotted the hillside protecting the right shore of the harbor from the wind.

The broad North Atlantic beyond the bay was blocked by a small island and could only be viewed from a hill that certainly couldn’t be mounted in winter except by snowmobile. Nevertheless, Lori was confident she could get some formidable photographs out of this rough landscape. A mild euphoria came over her, as it always did when a project’s creative possibilities took shape before her eyes.

The bitterly cold air snapped her back to reality. She hopped into the Corolla and drove past the church, following the road up the hill, her tires skidding slightly.

She caught a glimpse of a face peering out of a house window, but where were the other villagers? Her watch showed it was noon. The villagers must be gathered for Sunday dinner with their families, unlike solitary Lori. As she was turning the car around, she spotted a man stacking wood, and a snowmobile with a helmet on the seat.

She stopped and rolled down the window.

“Hello! Can you tell me where the village store is?”

The man took his time taking off his gloves, setting them on the snowmobile, and dusting the sawdust off his winter jacket, which had patches of silver tape.

His black wool tuque came down to his eyebrows, but she noted the strikingly dark eyes in his weather-beaten face.

“The village store?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard there’s one here, but I can’t find it.”

She suddenly felt like an idiot. The village was so tiny that she must have seen the store but not recognized it. The guy would certainly get a laugh telling everybody about the dumb tourist.

As he walked over to her car, Lori was struck by his gait. He didn’t roll his feet from heel to toe, but planted them flat and firmly with every step, and his body shifted from side to side, like a boat rocking in the water.

He pointed to where she’d just come from.

“Go back to the fork then to the left past the church until you come to the harbor. It’s there.”

She got out.

“I was just there, but didn’t see a store.”

The man was so close that she could see stubble on his tanned face. He might have been her age or ten years older, she couldn’t say. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, but his broad back made him look taller.

“It’s in the old fish plant, right next to the harbor.”

Lori couldn’t recall seeing a fish plant.

“Could you give me a reference point—a sign or something?”

He seemed to be taken aback for a few seconds, as if she were begging for alms.

“I can take you there,” he said at last.

“No, no, you don’t have to. It can’t be that hard to find a fish plant,” Lori said, embarrassed.

“It’s right beside the harbor, the only building there,” he added.

Lori thanked him and turned to go to her car. The man didn’t move. She decided to get one more question off her chest.

“I’ve heard you have to look out for polar bears around here?”

Once again, he regarded her in silence for a minute. Then he looked at the ocean and said, “Polar bears? Well . . . day before yesterday, one was seen near Ed’s workshop, and I heard tell last week that one ran across the road in front of Randy’s truck.”

He flattened the snow around him with his heavy rubber boots. “Who’s it told you about the bears?”

“The police.”

He waited for a few seconds. “Who in the police?”

Lori shrugged. “A young man, he said he was cautioning tourists about polar bears.”

The man said nothing, as if he had to process the information first. Then he prepared to leave. She heard him say, “Guess they don’t have anything better to do.”

Lori wished she’d asked him what to do if she did see a bear, but he was already back at his woodpile.

It crossed her mind that, from the way he walked, he must be a fisherman. He was used to rebalancing his body with every movement of the water. On terra firma, it looked like he was staggering.

After all that, she located the store rather quickly. She simply hadn’t noticed the little gray building. A lottery sign and an oversized plastic beer bottle signaled the entrance. When she went in, the smell of meat assaulted her nose. A woman was fussing with the hot dog machine beside the cash register.

“These things always drop off the wheel,” she complained, wiping the splattered fat off the glass lid with a rag.

When she turned around, the annoyance in her face changed to curiosity.

“Hello,” she said, drying her hands on the green apron stretched over her ample bosom. She wore tight jeans under her apron. She might have been forty, with black hair too uniform not to be dyed.

“Nice day out there, eh?”

“Yes, very nice,” Lori replied. “Do you often have days like this in winter?”

“No, not very often. Weather’s usually bad, blizzards and all. You can’t get out of the house for days on end. Ever been caught in a blizzard?”

She dropped the rag into a pink plastic bucket on the floor.

Lori shook her head. “I’m from Vancouver. Our winters are generally pretty mild and rainy.”

“From Vancouver. Visiting relatives?”

“No, I—”

At that moment, the door opened and an elderly woman came up to the counter.

“Quick, three l
ottery tickets, Mavis,” she demanded, putting down some coins.

The clerk fanned the tickets out in front of her so that the woman could pick three out.

“Give me three more,” she demanded impatiently.

And again she didn’t have a winner, and she was out the door.

Mavis threw the torn tickets into a wastebasket.

“This store is well camouflaged,” Lori offered. “I had to ask for directions.”

Mavis straightened her apron, her bosom heaving. Lori could imagine that men found her attractive.

“Who did you ask?” the clerk inquired, leaning over the counter.

“A man up the hill.”

“Where the road beside the church goes up? The last house?”

Lori nodded.

Mavis seemed pleased. “That would be Noah. Dark fellow?”

“Yes, from what I could tell. Somewhat dark.”

“They say he’s got Eskimo blood in him.”

Lori raised her eyebrows. “Eskimo blood?”

“Yes, one of his ancestors probably did it with an Eskimo woman. Noah’s the darkest in the family; you don’t really see it in his brothers and sisters.”

Lori was surprised that Mavis would share such personal information with a stranger. She figured they must have different notions about privacy in this neck of the woods.

“You should be grateful he talked to you,” Mavis continued. “He’s not really happy if he has to talk to a person. Rather talk to the snowmobiles he’s fixing up than to people. Maybe that’s why he’s so good mechanically.”

She laughed.

There was a pause while Mavis sorted out the previous customer’s change.

Lori plucked up her courage. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m a photographer hoping to take pictures of this area and the people here. I’d like to stay here for quite a while and move around . . . take my time about it. Do you maybe know of a house I could rent for a while?”

Mavis put her hands on her hips.

“A house?” she repeated, pursing her lips and gazing into the distance. “A house. I don’t know. I’d have to ask around.”

She thought for a moment. “There are houses empty. Belong to folks gone to work in the Alberta tar sands. But I don’t think they rent out. Do you know of a house for rent?” she asked a young man who was just coming in. “The lady here would like to rent one for a bit.”

The young man looked Lori over.

“She’s a photographer. From Vancouver. She’d like to take pictures of us. And the area.”

The young man rubbed his chin. He had on a black jacket marked with yellow and red stripes.

“Selina Gould wants to rent out Cletus’s house, so I’ve heard.”

“Really!” Mavis exclaimed, openmouthed.

“Why not?” the young man responded. “That house has been up for sale for two years, and nobody’s bought it.”

“No wonder they haven’t.”

Both looked at Lori, then glanced at each other.

“I could talk to the owner,” Lori suggested. “Who would that be?”

“The house belonged to Cletus Gould,” the young man replied. “Cletus Gould.”

“Cletus Gould,” Lori repeated, trying to make the name stick.

That got things rolling.