Now and in the Hour of Our Death (13 page)

“G'dye.” Tim stepped into the cockpit with the sail cover under his arm. “All set?”

“Just need to stow my bag. I've brought a bottle.”

“There's ice in the cooler. Nip below, shove the grog in, and by the time you're back on deck, I'll have the engine running and the lines ready to cast off. Here,” he handed her the sail cover, “stow that while you're below.”

The clattering of the diesel engine was much louder in the boat's saloon. She felt the boat rock as Tim stepped onto the dock. He called, “I'm casting off.”

She climbed back on deck and sat as Tim steered the boat out of False Creek.

Windy
bounced to the waves of English Bay. Fiona felt her hair being tossed by the wind that blew away the diesel smell of the fuel barge moored beside Burrard Bridge and the never-quiet muttering of the city. To port the Vanier kites—all but Tim's giant sperm—swooped, soared, and rushed toward the ground only to race again to the heavens, their frantic movements in contrast with the granite immobility of the dark North Shore Mountains away to starboard.

Once the sails were hoisted, Tim stopped the engine. Without its clattering, her world became silent with only the gentle sound of water sluicing past the hull to intrude. She promised herself that the day would be perfect.

*   *   *

“A thing of beauty,” Tim said. He sat ahead of her but close enough that she could feel the pressure of his body. Fiona held the tiller, feeling it tug in answer to the force of the wind on the sails.

Tim ducked to look under the boom. “We'll make Point Atkinson if you can hold this course.”

“Right.” She listened to
Windy
's sharp bow cutting through the short chop, the occasional splat of a wave breaking over the foredeck, the singing of the wind in the rigging. The sun was warm on the back of her neck and her lips were salty.

She'd taken the helm the whole way across Burrard Inlet, tacking on Tim's command, back and forth across the sparkling water, slipping behind anchored freighters, sometimes changing course when an approaching boat had the right of way and a collision might be possible if
Windy
didn't yield.

Few words other than helm orders and acknowledgments had been exchanged. There had been no need. To Fiona, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. No wonder Tim loved his sailing.

“You're getting the feel of her,” Tim said. “I think I'll promote you from cabin boy to first mate.” He leaned back and kissed her.

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

He hunched one shoulder, rolled his eyes, and in a harsh voice said, “Aaar, Jim lad. Was you ever at sea?”

“You don't look enough like Long John Silver.” She couldn't help laughing at him. “Anyway you don't have a parrot.”

“But I have you, don't I?” She heard just the tiniest edge in his question.

“Of course, silly.”

The sails started to flap. She looked up, grateful for the distraction. “Looks like we've run out of wind.” She saw him stoop and start the engine. “We're in Howe Sound. The wind often dies here. Right. Hold her on that. I'll get the sails down and we'll motor up to Mannion Bay on Bowen Island.”

She watched him, businesslike, competent, furl the jib and then lower the mainsail and fold it neatly on the boom. When the sails were down, she had an unobstructed view.

Tim came back into the cockpit and pointed at an island dead ahead. It had a high, rounded summit and a low, narrow peninsula that rose at its far end to a smaller hill. “That's Anvil Island. It always makes me think of a submerging dinosaur.”

The island did look like a brontosaurus preparing to dive below the still, blue waters of Howe Sound.

“I'd never've thought of that, but you're right.” He really did have a knack for seeing things differently from other people. “Let's call it Tim Island.”

“Why?”

“Because you
can
be a bit of an old dinosaur sometimes.”

“Shame about that,” he said, pretending to scowl.

“What? That you can be a bit old-fashioned? I like it when you hold a lady's chair … like you did in Bridges last night.” Why in hell had she brought up the very subject she was hoping to avoid?

“Oh, that sort of thing? Manners, they say, maketh the man…”

And he was a mannerly man. He must be good with his patients.

“Because if you'd meant it some other way”—Tim drew one finger across his throat—“I'd have made you walk the plank.” He was grinning from ear to ear. He came toward her and hugged her. “I do love you,” he said.

*   *   *

Windy
swung to her anchor in Mannion Bay. Fiona lay back against the stern rail, arms spread to either side. Tim was below, refilling their wineglasses. She brushed the crumbs of her just-eaten ham sandwich from her T-shirt and watched the horizon swing past.

The green light marking the channel for the ferries that plied from Horseshoe Bay on the mainland to Snug Cove on Bowen Island slid aft. Houses dotted the shoreline of the bay, protected behind evergreen palisades. Inland, Mount Gardiner stood sentinel over the village. A family of Canada geese, mum, dad, and the kids, paddled past, gronking hopefully. Panhandlers.

She watched as a bald eagle soared on thermals, higher and higher until all she could see was a speck. No kite strings for him. Perhaps eagles didn't remember their pasts.

And it seemed that Tim hadn't been too interested in her past either. He'd not even batted an eyelid when she'd mentioned Bridges. His remark that he'd “wanted to ask her about this Davy fellow” seemed to have been forgotten.

Tim reappeared, plastic wineglasses in his hands. “Here you go.” He gave her one and sat beside her. “Nice bit of grog, that. Reminds me of one from the Barossa Valley, back in Oz.”

“Glad you like it.” She snuggled against him, confident now that he hadn't been unduly upset last night. And anyway, what should it matter to Tim if she'd had other men before? There'd be something a bit odd about a forty-three-year-old woman who hadn't. Just to be certain that there would be no lingering rancour, she said, “I brought the bottle to say sorry about last night.”

He didn't say, “No worries,” which was Tim's usual way of accepting an apology.

“I didn't mean to get so bitchy.”

She offered him a kiss, but Tim leaned back, looked into her eyes, and said quietly, “You weren't very polite to that friend of yours.”

“He's not really a friend.”

“But he's one of your mob. Irish.”

“That's why I didn't want to go for a drink. There are some things about Belfast I don't like to have to remember. I've told you that.” A gust made the rigging rattle. She shivered.

“It was more than that. Every time that bloke's name came up, you…”

“What bloke?” She'd been wrong. Tim hadn't forgotten.

“Who's Davy?” His voice was quietly serious. “Every time you heard his name, you shivered.”

Typical doctor. They were trained to be sensitive to body language, and the signals she'd been sending must have been overpowering.

The wind was definitely freshening. “You really want to know, don't you?”

Tim nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her eyes.

“I'm going below,” she said. “I'm getting cold. I want to get a sweater.” She rose. “Here. Hold this.” She handed him her wineglass.

Her pullover lay on the bench. She hadn't bothered to repack it when she'd taken out the bottle of wine. Fiona hauled the heavy woolen pullover on, struggling to force her arms through the sleeves. What should she tell Tim about Davy? Nothing? A watered-down version of what had been between them? The truth? She clambered back on deck.

The wind was really blowing. Even in the sheltered anchorage, waves made
Windy
pitch. Tim was up on deck, bending over, doing something. Perhaps the freshening wind would distract him, give them both an excuse to drop the subject.

He came back to the cockpit. “Just fixing the anchor.
Windy
could drag if there's not enough rope between her bows and the sea floor.” He pointed to waves breaking over a reef. “I'd not want us to go up on the rocks.” He busied himself with some other ropes.

Nor would I, she thought, and I mean you and me, Tim, not the boat. Eight months they'd been seeing each other, and eight months had been time enough to get over the first purely sexual attraction, the tingling of knowing that she would see him and what they would do. The leaving of a restaurant early, the fumbling in the hall. Bed. And Tim was good in bed. Very good. They were practically on—and in spite of herself she smiled at the thought—“farting terms.”

So, if they were going to go on seeing each other, he deserved the truth. If it was too much for him to handle, it would be very sad. She'd do anything to avoid hurting him, but better to get everything out in the open now. She knew that Davy McCutcheon was to her more than an old romance. More than a pleasant, fading memory. If Tim asked again—

“Let's get below,” he said, picking up the two glasses and handing one to her. “Don't forget your wine.”

She sat facing Tim, the table between. Through the port light she could see the shoreline speed by as
Windy
swung in an arc before jerking to a halt and swinging back the other way. The pitching increased.

“Are you sure we'll be all right?”

“As rain. That anchor would hold the
Titanic.
”

“The
Titanic
was built in Belfast, and you know what happened to her. She sank.”

“There're no icebergs here. We'll be fine.” He sounded confident. He wasn't just saying that to reassure her. “These summer squalls blow over quickly, but we'll have to sit it out for a while.” He leaned forward across the table. “Lots of time for you to tell me about…”

“Davy?” She felt her shoulders sag. She put her hands on the tabletop, stared at them, then looked him in the eye and said, “It's a long story.”

“We aren't going anywhere.” Tim settled back against the bulkhead. He looked as he must look when a patient launched into a convoluted history.

“You need to know more about me than I've ever told you.”

Tim leaned forward and put his hands over hers. The warmth was comforting. He said nothing.

Fiona glanced down at her hands, covered by Tim's, and back to his face. She bit her lip. “All right. Davy McCutcheon was a man I was in love with. In Belfast. During the Troubles. Before I emigrated. We were meant to come to Canada together.”

“Why didn't you?”

“He got caught. Put in jail.” She saw one of Tim's shaggy eyebrows go up.

“No, he wasn't a criminal, at least not by his lights. He was in the Provisional IRA, the Provos.”

“I thought they
were
criminals, murderers.”

Fiona nodded. “So do most people, but
they
really do believe that they are freedom fighters at war with the English for Ireland's freedom. No more criminals than”—she searched for an analogy—“than the Allies in the Second World War.”

Tim frowned.

“Tim, don't ask me to try to explain Irish history to you. We'd be here for weeks. Just take my word for it. Davy McCutcheon could no more be a thief than fly to the moon. He was a soldier, a volunteer.”

“All right. I'll accept that … for the moment.”

“So was Jimmy.”

“The man at Bridges?” Tim whistled. “Good God.”

“He was Davy's best friend. They made explosives for the Provos. Davy believed that he was working for a better Ireland. He was able to ignore what his bombs did … at least for a while.”

“Did you live with him?”

“Yes.”

“Fiona, I don't understand. You told me you were a civil rights worker. That you hated violence.”

“I still do, but I loved Davy in spite of what he did. You can't analyze love, pull it apart, see how it ticks, and understand it. Once you start doing that, it would be like”—she thought about her biology class at school—“like cutting up a live frog. You'd understand its anatomy better, but the frog would be dead.”

“I know.” There was a hint of a smile.

Windy
lurched, and Fiona had to steady herself with her hands on the seat. She looked questioningly at Tim.

“It's all right. Go on.”

“I tried to leave him once.” The smell of diesel fuel stung her eyes. “Everything sensible said I should, but I couldn't, until one day.” Her eyes were filling. “One day one of his bombs killed a railway ticket collector. The man's daughters were in my class. I had to try to comfort them. What could I say to them?”

“It's never easy. I know. It goes with the territory in my job, and I hate it.”

“That finished it for me. I told him if he didn't leave the Provos, I'd leave him. He wouldn't, couldn't, and so … I moved out. It's funny how you remember little things, but I left him my cat called McCusker.”

“Is that why you called…?”

“Probably.” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter, but Davy doted on that stupid creature. He was a gentle man. Some people thought he was too fussy, a bit of an old woman for a man of thirty-eight. There were a hell of a lot of old, young men in Belfast in the Troubles. There were a whole lot of old, young men after Korea just like the ones in the trenches after the Somme and Vimy Ridge. War does that to you.” She stared at Tim, and her voice cracked. “Davy didn't have many friends, maybe that was why he kept the cat, but he was close to Jimmy Ferguson.

“Belfast's a small place. A while after I'd moved out of Davy's house, I ran into Jimmy. He told me that Davy wanted to talk to me. That he'd made up his mind to go to Canada … Jimmy was all set to emigrate … and Davy had had enough, too.