Authors: Gill McKnight
“Come on. Show me where we go.”
Mouse looked at the offered hand suspiciously. Her nose twitched with a surreptitious sniff before she took Isabelle’s hand in her own small, cold one. Isabelle allowed herself to be led from the barn out into a bright and bitter morning.
They trudged across the yard toward what looked like an old, wood-clad storehouse. Smoke billowed from a tin chimney. Isabelle was certain it hadn’t been smoking before. She would have noticed the acrid smell of burning greenwood as she came down the track.
“Bathwater,” Mouse muttered darkly. She let go of Isabelle’s hand to bounce up the porch steps and bang the plank door back on its hinges.
“Jenna,” Mouse bellowed. “I got the girl stayin’ at Ren’s.” It was more a warning than an introduction.
Isabelle followed and found herself in the bunkhouse. Rows of narrow cots lined the wall, head to toe, all tucked up with thick woolen blankets. Ten cots in all, five on either side of a narrow walkway that led to a straggle of hard-backed chairs around an ancient wood stove. She could see why Mouse preferred her nest. This was a stern, comfortless barracks of a room.
A young black woman bent over the monstrosity of a stove and pushed a log through the top plate. She straightened and stared over at Isabelle. It wasn’t a friendly or even curious look, nor was it hostile. Jenna’s gaze was steady and assessing, as if she had been waiting for Isabelle to turn up. Isabelle guessed her recuperation at Ren’s cabin was of high interest to this little community, if she could call it that. She wasn’t sure what this collection of young people in the middle of nowhere was all about.
Though she didn’t feel threatened by Jenna’s stare, she didn’t relax under it either. Isabelle guessed Jenna to be in her late teens, about the same age as Joey. She was shorter than Isabelle, about five foot six, and was comfortably plump, though there was a definite steely strength in her eyes and attitude. Isabelle decided Jenna was likely generous by nature, but once a line was crossed then all hell would break loose. She wondered if she lived up to Jenna’s expectations. She hoped so.
They cannily took each other’s measure.
“She’s called Isabelle and she tugged Patrick’s ear hairs real hard.” Mouse was unaware of the adult weighing-up going on over her head. Pleasure bubbled under her words.
“I bet he appreciated that,” Jenna said with a wry grin, more for Mouse than Isabelle. Her gaze leveled on Isabelle, and her grin deepened until her cheeks creased into a smile of genuine welcome. She came forward and took the tray from Isabelle, then held out her hand. “Hi, Isabelle. I’m Jenna, but I guess you heard that already.” Her words were followed by a little cough she concealed behind her cuff.
Isabelle shook hands. Jenna’s grip was firm and she held on a little longer than was necessary, and Isabelle realized this initial touch was important to her. She was being delicately and deliberately scrutinized, and she wanted to pass muster.
“Joey and Mouse have been praising your cooking,” she said, and cast an eye over to the wood stove. Its top plates were bare, and her disappointment grew that Patrick was right and breakfast was indeed over.
“I’m heating the water for Mouse’s bath. Look at you; you’re a dirty little troglodyte.” Jenna scolded Mouse, ignoring the face pulled back at her. She turned her attention to Isabelle. “The cookhouse is across the way. Once I get this one in the tub, I’ll take you over.”
“I only need a loan of some groceries,” Isabelle said. She didn’t want Jenna thinking she had to make her breakfast. She was more than capable of doing that herself, if she could restock Ren’s larder. “There’s no food at the cabin.”
Jenna snorted. “I’ll bet.” She set the tray aside and began ushering Mouse toward a door by the stove. “Come on, you. I’ve already started running your bath. Hop in, and I’ll top it up with more hot water.”
Isabelle followed them to a large bathroom covered from floor to ceiling in thick white industrial tiles. It looked clinical and cold despite the billowing clouds of steam that hung from the ceiling. To one side she saw a long shower stall that held four showerheads and no partitions in between for privacy. Beside that was a single toilet stall and then a double basin. Mouse was heading straight to a large tub on the other side of the room, under high, steamed-up windows. She shed her soiled clothing as she went, dropping it at her feet, with no show of modesty or tidiness whatsoever. Her skinny little body was as filthy as her jeans and sweater. Jenna followed, clucking and fussing over the discarded clothes. Once she’d seen Mouse safely into her bath, she dumped the lot into a washing machine tucked into the farthest corner and started a wash cycle.
The bathroom was charmless but practical, and together with the rows of cots in the other room gave an austere, institutional feel to the bunkhouse. Isabelle longed to ask Ren about this place and its young inhabitants, but she had no idea when she would next see her. Ren’s constant comings and goings were beginning to irk her. Which was another strange thing. She wanted to know where Ren was every minute of the day and became anxious when she didn’t. What was all that about?
The steam encouraged Jenna into a fit of coughing. She struggled to catch her breath, but finally pointed at Mouse.
“Scrub hard and I’ll come back and do your hair. And don’t forget behind your ears and under your nails.” Jenna left Mouse splashing contentedly in the bath. Despite her earlier complaints, she was happy to play in the big, suds-filled tub.
“Come on with me.” Jenna brushed past Isabelle, collected her tray, and led them out of the bunkhouse and back into the yard. The wind had dropped away and the midmorning sun had warmed the air by a few degrees.
Wind chill had to be a major factor in the valley, Isabelle thought. She looked up at the peaks that surrounded them. In the summer it must boil in its own little microclimate. She remembered the tractor in the barn and wondered what crops they managed to grow on these steep slopes and how long their season ran. Her brow knit. Once again, she was surprised such questions dropped into her head from nowhere. It confirmed once more that she somehow knew this region, or a place much like it. That she was in some way connected to the land to consider crops and growing seasons, or even the topographical lay of the valley for farming.
As Jenna led her across the yard, their boots scraped through the mud-streaked snow to the loose gravel beneath. The tire tracks were melting away.
“How many vehicles do you have here?” Isabelle asked. She was still on a mission to find out all she could for herself.
Jenna shrugged. “Three or four bikes and a few quads. Ren and Patrick have trucks.”
Isabelle kept fishing.“Oh, I saw a bike in the barn, but it was in bits.”
“Joey and Noah are fixing it up between them. It’s an old bike Ren found for them to work on.”
“Was the tractor a project, too?”
“We’ve always had it. I think Ren fixed that up herself. It was here before I arrived.”
It was the opening she’d been waiting for. “Where do you come from, Jenna? What do you all do around here? Apart from fix machinery.”
Jenna gave her a sideways look. “I came in from Ontario. And we fix fish around here.”
“Fish?”
“There’s a natal stream for sockeye running through this valley. We farm the eggs for the big hatcheries in Bella Coola, and keep a pink channel.”
“A pink channel?” Isabelle had no idea what that was.
“It’s a man-made river with flow control. We use it to raise salmon fry. Ask Ren, she’ll maybe take you down and show you. It’s more conservation than commercial.”
“It sounds fantastic. Baby salmon.” Isabelle wanted to go and see the pink channel now, but her stomach groaned again and food took precedence. It had to be the fresh mountain air giving her the appetite of a bear.
The cookhouse sat opposite the bunkhouse. Isabelle noticed there was no woodsmoke hanging over its shingled roof; the stove must be stone cold with breakfast over for the morning. Still, she would soon have Ren’s old burner lit up for cooking. The thought cheered her up. She needed routine in her life. She needed function and structure.
Jenna stepped up onto a wide porch that ran the entire length of the building. It was furnished with an assortment of chairs and bench tables. Isabelle guessed this was the gathering place on balmy summer evenings when cool breezes wafted down the mountainside. It offered a fantastic view of the valley and its perpetual crown of snowcaps. It had to be a wonderful place to sit and eat outdoors, no matter what time of year.
She noticed Jenna was a little breathless after the walk. She pushed open the door to the cookhouse without a glance at the majesty around them, too busy concentrating on her breathing. Isabelle followed, entering a huge, modern kitchen. It was not at all what she expected. No primitive wood stoves burned here. This room was fitted out to a very high standard with professional kitchen equipment.
Well-scrubbed wooden countertops wrapped around two walls of the room. Two large refrigerators stood shoulder to shoulder near the entrance, and a huge propane range in gleaming stainless steel sat against the far wall. A double drainer sink stacked with drying dishes was tucked in under a large picture window opposite the door. Whoever did the cleaning could dream the chore away looking out at the distant mountains.
The windowsill was lined with more of the hand-painted pots and plants Isabelle had seen in Ren’s bathroom window. Sunshine poured through the glass and bounced off the shiny surfaces, bathing the room with warmth. The range pulsed out heat, along with the mouth-watering smell of baking bread.
The center of the room was dominated by a long pine table with bench seats. Paperbacks and magazines on all manner of interests lay scattered over it. Some were for a younger age group, and Isabelle imagined these were for Mouse. It was obvious this was the real home hub, not the barren bunkhouse. The butter yellow walls resonated with goodwill and homeliness, and Isabelle could see by the way Jenna bustled around the kitchen that she was its heartbeat. This was her space, her domain.
“What a beautiful kitchen,” Isabelle said in genuine admiration. Her words won a look of approval from Jenna.
“Do you cook?” she asked Isabelle. A little uncertainty crept into her voice. “Will you be taking over?”
Isabelle was surprised. Taking it over? She shook her head.
“Why would I do that? This is a wonderful kitchen and I bet you’re the one who made it like this.” She couldn’t see Ren or any of the others managing to organize it. If Ren’s kitchen was anything to go by, this place would be filled with bunches of dried herbs, bubbling unguents, and Lord knew what else. This was a cook’s kitchen, not an apothecary’s.
“I used to work in catering.” Jenna looked around her. “When I first came here it was full of cobwebs, with a wonky table and that old wood stove you saw over in the bunkhouse.” Jenna ran her hand over the countertop with pride. “I got Ren and the boys to build me these cupboards and a new table with seats to match. And I was adamant about getting a proper stove and the biggest fridge Ren could find. In the end, she got me two.” There was no mistaking the pride in Jenna’s voice.
“How long did that take to build?” Isabelle grabbed at Jenna’s enthusiasm.
“It looks gorgeous, all the wood tones. Did you plan it all on your own?” It was shameless the way she exploited them all for an extra snippet of information, but it was justified, especially as Ren was being so recalcitrant.
“About three weeks. They went full at it. I planned it all out, and Ren told me what wood was available. It’s my dream kitchen for my big family.” Jenna abruptly turned away, a sudden discomfort in the conversation showing, as if she were embarrassed she had revealed too much.
“I love these.” Desperate to keep Jenna with her, Isabelle reached for one of the brightly painted pots on the windowsill. “I saw some in Ren’s bathroom.”
“I buy the plain clay pots and Mouse paints them and plants them up.” She seemed happier that she wasn’t the subject of conversation any longer. “She can’t sit still. It’s hard to keep her focused on anything for long, but tell her it’s for Ren and she tries harder. Given her own way, she’d be out running these woods ragged night and day.”
“Doesn’t she go to school?” Isabelle asked. Another question popped into her head, one she’d asked Mouse earlier. “Where are her parents?”
“She lost her parents. Ren looks after her now and she gets schooled here.” A defensive edge had crept into Jenna’s voice. She was protective of Mouse.
“Then she’s a lucky girl,” Isabelle said. “What a fantastic place to grow up. How long have you all been here?”
“I’ll get you some food. What do you need? Milk, eggs, steak?” Jenna moved to the fridge ignoring the question. The conversation about the farm and the people living on it was over. “I baked bread earlier.” Jenna choked back another cough.
“Are you okay? That’s a nasty cough.”
“I’m fine.” The reply was curt, and Isabelle understood Jenna did not want to talk about her health either.
“The bread smells fantastic.” Isabelle changed the subject back to food. She moved around the kitchen noting the little details, she paused to look at Mouse’s artwork tacked to the walls and on the door of the fridge.
“Got any greens?” she asked hopefully. She was coming to realize just how clever the kitchen layout was. Jenna had planned the entire space to function effortlessly for the cook. Isabelle was pleased she recognized the fact. It seemed she was a homebody, and she itched to cook in this kitchen. It would be a pleasure.