The House at Mermaid's Cove(21)

A wooden bridge took us from the path to the edge of the village. I could see thin green strands of eelgrass swaying in the shallow water lapping through the channel beneath. Like a mermaid’s hair, I thought. I wondered if this was how the cove had got its name.

I followed Merle into what appeared to be the main street through the village. Despite the uniform gray of the cottage walls, it was a place of vivid colors. Pots of fuchsias and pansies lined windowsills and porches. Baskets of geraniums hung at either side of front doors. Chickens and ducks wandered around the cobblestone streets, and I could hear budgerigars and canaries chirping away inside the houses.

“It’s very quaint,” I said, as we passed a half-open stable door where an old, toothless man stood smoking a clay pipe.

She nodded, turning to wave as the old man raised his pipe in a greeting. “It’s like the whole place is preserved in aspic. Shame about the smell, though.”

Living in the boathouse, I’d become used to breathing air tainted with the odor of fish. But here the stench was overpowering. The smell was tinged with something else—a bitter, tarry scent that Merle told me was pitch boiled up to preserve the fishing nets.

We saw the nets draped out to dry in the sunshine as we neared the quayside. Wooden boats, left high and dry by the receding tide, were moored to metal rings in the wall. Their names were hand painted in bold letters. I shaded my eyes to read them. Fleetwings, Seasquirt, Mabel, Stella. Farther out in the estuary, moored to buoys, were bigger fishing boats.

A few yards from the quay was the fish cellar. “That’s where the stink comes from,” Merle said. “They store the pilchards in there after they’ve squeezed the oil out of them.”

Two men in sailor’s caps were sitting outside, mending nets strung with floats made of cork. Merle nodded to them as we passed by. “Those two are Eddie Downing and Leo Badger,” she murmured. “Eddie’s granddaughter is the same age as Danielle. Leo’s his uncle. He’s seventy-four, but he still goes out fishing every day. Last summer he caught a shark and it bit him when he tried to haul it in.” She glanced back at the men, her lips pressed together, as if she was trying not to smile. “I would have introduced you—but every time I stop to chat, Leo rolls up his trouser leg to show me the teeth marks!”

We dodged across the narrow street to avoid a donkey that was coming up behind us pulling a cart laden with seaweed. “They use it for compost up at the farm,” Merle said, as it trundled past. “The banks are too steep for tractors.”

There was another man sitting outside a cottage, making some sort of basket out of withies. When Merle called out a greeting, he raised his head and I saw that his eyes were opaque. “That’s George Retallack,” she whispered. “He’s amazing: He makes those crab and lobster pots even though he’s been blind since he was born. He can find his way around without any help—people say he can even sense the state of the tide.”

I wondered why there didn’t seem to be any women in the village. When I asked, Merle told me that they were out selling fish. “They go to Falmouth by donkey,” she said. “Turbot’s the prize catch, along with halibut and red mullet. There are oysters in the estuary, too.”

“Oysters were my favorite thing when I lived in Dublin,” I said. “But it’s . . .” I bit my tongue. I’d almost told her that they were the food I’d missed most when I went into the convent.

“What?” Merle said.

“It’s . . . just been a while since I’ve had any.” I smiled to cover my awkwardness.

There was a sudden commotion farther up the street: the whoop of children let loose for the Easter holiday. “Oh—they’re out early.” Merle opened her arms to catch Ned, who came hurtling down the street like a missile.

“Slow down!” She caught him and lifted him off his feet. “He’s really too young to go to school,” she said, ruffling his hair as she put him down. “He’s only four and a half.” She glanced past me to the woods above the village, where Penheligan’s monumental walls were hidden in the trees. “It was a bit of influence from you-know-who. He persuaded the headmistress to allow Ned to come here with the others.”

Watching the little boy as he darted down the street with Merle’s children, I couldn’t help thinking about his parents. What must it be like for them, I wondered, not knowing where he was or who was looking after him? And what would it be like for Ned when the war finally ended? How would he feel, being handed back to people who were total strangers?

“We’ll walk you back to the boathouse if you like,” Merle said. As we headed for the rocky spur that separated the village from the cove, she produced a paper bag from her pocket. Inside it were licorice bootlaces. She gave one to each of the children, then handed me one.

I tried to give it back—it didn’t feel right, taking what she’d bought for the children—but she insisted. “Everything with sugar in it is supposed to be rationed,” she said, “but there’s a woman up the street with jars of these hidden in a cupboard in her front room—and she never asks for any coupons.”

I put mine in the pocket of my dungarees to save for later. Merle went to catch up with Louis and the girls, who were kicking the head of a dead fish around the cobblestones. Ned fell into step beside me. He tugged at my hand, and when I looked down, he opened his mouth to show a tongue and gums stained black with licorice.