Читать книгу A Bone to Pick - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 7

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “You know, Aunt Margaret, this brush is way too good to be used for painting the house.” I ran the soft bristles over my hand and admired its perfectly formed wooden handle, while at the same time appreciating it for its greater potential.

“Too good to be used to paint? That’s a pretty lame excuse for getting out of painting the house with me today. C’mon, Peggy, surely you can do better than that.” Aunt Margaret pried off the lid and started stirring the turquoise paint she’d bought that morning.

“I admit it’s not something I feel like doing. But I’m serious. This brush would be perfect for excavating —”

“Ha! I should have guessed — excavating indeed.” Aunt Margaret snorted out a laugh — a trait of the women in my family.

“Yes, excavating,” I defended, feeling annoyed.

“I thought an archaeologist needed trowels and shovels for excavating.”

“They do, but once they find something really old, they have to have a tool that can gently remove the sand or dirt from the bones or artifacts that won’t damage them. Imagine you found a perfectly preserved skeleton that was thousands of years old — would you want to be the one that came along and ruined it? That’s why an archaeologist needs a brush like this.”

Aunt Margaret snatched it from my hand. “Well, today this isn’t an archaeologist’s tool, but rather a paintbrush that’s going to be used to give new life to our old house. And you, young lady, will have the privilege of using it.” She plunged the brush into the can of paint and slapped it on the side of the house, leaving a long streak of glistening turquoise. “There, you see. It’s going to be beautiful. Now get to it.”

I heaved another sigh and took the now-damaged brush from my aunt. Helping her to paint the house was an idea she and Mom had cooked up as a way for me to earn my own spending money over the summer. I’d tried my best to argue that I didn’t really need much spending money. After all, when you lived three blocks from the beach, all you needed was a bathing suit, a towel, and a couple of friends.

“And where will you get the money to rent a skiff at the marina when you feel like sailing?” Mom had argued. “And money for scuba diving with Vince Torino and TB? And how do you plan to pay for all those archaeology books you want to buy online?”

“Okay, I get it,” I’d grumbled. My mom was a single parent, and I’d been taught young that money didn’t grow on trees. I guess we were lucky — if you could call it lucky — that my mom’s bossy sister and Uncle Stuart had invited us to live with them until Mom could afford to pay for a place of our own.

At first, coming to live with my aunt and uncle at Crescent Beach had been rough. But then the greatest thing in my life had happened. One summer day Uncle Stuart and I were digging a hole in the backyard for our new koi pond when we accidentally unearthed the remains of a three-thousand-year-old Coast Salish carver. That was when we first learned that Crescent Beach was actually a Coast Salish summer fishing village dating back five thousand years.

When it became clear that what at first seemed to be a large round stone was actually a human skull, everyone was in shock — well, mostly Aunt Margaret. The only thing we could think of was to call the police, who knew exactly what to do with our mystery man. They called in a provincial archaeologist, Dr. Edwina McKay. She was an expert in bones — an osteologist.

That summer Dr. McKay — or Eddy as I came to call her — taught me a lot about excavating, and how to interpret the information that ancient bones told us about a person’s life and death. Besides learning a lot about the First Nations people who once lived in Crescent Beach, I also discovered I had a passion and talent for archaeology. You could say from that time on I was hooked on it.

And speaking of really old things, Eddy was one of my best friends. She got me. And thanks to her I’d been on three important excavations. My most recent was at the tip of Vancouver Island looking for a sunken fur trade ship. That was the reason why I’d gotten into scuba diving. Now, when I wasn’t on some archaeo­logical dig, I was reading and dreaming about artifacts and bones and … well, pretty much anything to do with archaeology.

So, for obvious reasons, being drafted into painting my aunt’s house felt like a prison sentence. That first day had been nothing short of agonizing — and not just because we’d spoiled a perfectly good archaeological tool. As the hot sun beat down on me, I watched jealously as tourists arrived in carloads. I knew they were all heading to Blackie’s Spit where they’d park and then land themselves a spot on the beach for the day.

Then that afternoon the ice-cream man showed up and almost drove me crazy. He went by our house three times — the sound of his tinny music playing the same two bars of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” over and over was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Each time he passed our house he slowed down as if trying to wear me down. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and ran after him, waving my money like a six-year-old.

By suppertime I was so tired I could hardly sit up, and holding my fork was painful. While I chewed my spaghetti and meatballs, all I could think about was how dreadful my life was going to be for the next two weeks.

“Peggy, you’ve worked very hard today. I’m proud of you, sweetie,” Mom gushed. “Why don’t you call TB and see if he’ll go for a swim with you?”

“Mom,” I slurred, “I’m so tired I can barely hold my eyelids open, let alone get on my bike, ride to the beach, and then swim.”

“Oh, c’mon. It will be refreshing,” urged Aunt Margaret. Debating with my aunt was usually a favourite pastime of mine, but I didn’t even have the energy for that until she dropped a bomb on me. “By the way, I saw your friend the archaeologist at the grocery store today. She tells me she’s off to work in Newfoundland — said something about Vikings.”

I sat upright and nearly gagged on my meatballs. “Newfoundland — no way! Well, did Eddy say anything about me?” Funny. A moment before I was too tired to even argue with Aunt Margaret. Now I felt as if I were going to jump off my seat like a jack-in-the-box. “When’s she going?” I muttered more to myself than to anyone else. “Maybe I can go, too.”

Aunt Margaret snorted. “You’re joking, right? Of course, you can’t go —” she started saying.

“Mom, can I be excused? I have to make a call.” Not waiting for her answer, I dashed out of the room. A few moments later I was punching in numbers on the phone. “Hey, Eddy, it’s me.”

I heard her chuckle on the other end of the line. “I was wondering how long it was going to take before I heard from you.” I could feel her smile coming through the phone line. “But, Peggy, before you get your hopes up, you should know that this isn’t my show. I’ve been asked to teach archaeology field school for Memorial University. One of their professors cancelled at the last minute, and it looks as if I was the only one who could fill in on such short notice.”

“But Aunt Margaret said something about Vikings. I didn’t know you were an expert on Vikings,” I said, feeling my newfound energy starting to drain away.

“I’m not an expert on Vikings, but I do know about archaeology and excavating. I guess they were desperate and I was available.”

“So what exactly will you be teaching?”

“These students have done a lot of classroom learning, but they’ve yet to go out into the field and put their theoretical knowledge into practice. They still need to learn the methods of excavating a site — surveying, mapping, setting datum points, using tools properly …”

“In other words, things I already know how to do.”

Eddy chuckled again. “Believe it or not, Peggy, you still have much to learn.”

“Maybe so, but I bet I know more than the students you’ll be teaching at field school.”

“Well, you could be right.”

“So I still don’t get what the Vikings have to do with field school.”

“Right, well this year Memorial’s field school is at a place at the northern tip of Newfoundland called L’Anse aux Meadows. A while back a couple of archaeologists discovered some Viking artifacts there. After eight years of excavating, they proved it’s an authentic Norse site — in fact, it’s the only one in North America,” explained Eddy. I remembered learning a bit about the Vikings in school. Like how they came to the East Coast of Canada a thousand years ago. “It turned out to be so important that the place is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”

“Is that the organization that protects special places and things?” I asked Eddy.

“That’s right, although they do a lot more than that.” There was a moment of silence over the line. “So, anyway, L’Anse aux Meadows is where this year’s field school is going to take place. And I’m really excited because I haven’t been there in nearly twenty years.”

Hmm. I needed a few moments to think this through. I was practically Eddy’s sidekick — like Robin was to Batman or Tonto to the Lone Ranger. If Eddy was going to Newfoundland to teach a bunch of greenhorns how to excavate, there had to be something I could do to help.

“I know what’s going through your head, Peggy. Believe me, if there was something I could do, I would. But these students are serious about having a career in archaeo-­logy and have paid a lot of money to attend this special summer course. I don’t think they’d be happy about having a thirteen-year-old girl — as experienced and knowledgeable as she may be — teach them about excavating.”

“Okay, then, sign me up. I’ll go as a student.”

“If, and I am saying if you could sign up as a student, just where would you get the $2,500 for tuition and living expenses, plus $1,000 for airfare?”

My jaw fell, and I sighed. “Oh, right.” Even with all the money I had in my savings and the money I would get paid to paint the house, I’d have nowhere near enough.

“I’m sorry. If something changes, you’ll be the first to know,” said Eddy.

By the time I hung up, the overwhelming tiredness I’d felt at dinner had returned.

That night, as I lay in bed disappointed and sleepy, Mom popped into my room to say good night.

“It would have been wonderful if you could have gone, Peggy,” Mom said. “But if going to Newfoundland to excavate a Viking site isn’t in the cards, then something equally wonderful is right around the corner. You’ll see.”

“Mom, I appreciate that you want to cheer me up, but I seriously doubt there’d be anything as cool as going with Eddy to see where the Vikings lived.” I pulled the blanket over my head.

As unlikely as it was, I went to sleep that night hoping Eddy would find a way to take me. After all, miracles did happen, right?

“Here’s a thought — how about I go out and get started on painting while you stay here and make the chili for dinner?” Aunt Margaret suggested cheerfully after Mom left for work the next morning.

Now it was my turn to snort out a laugh. “Right, me make dinner? You know I have a hard time boiling water without burning it.”

“Oh, come on, Peggy. Anyone can cook. You’ve done it before. You just have to follow the recipe.” I watched her load measuring cups, cans of tomatoes and beans, spices, and a bunch of other stuff onto the counter. “Here’s the recipe — just follow it exactly and you can’t fail.” She handed me the piece of paper, which read: BEST CHILI CON CARNE ON EARTH.

I decided being left to make chili was probably better than standing in the heat slopping paint on the house and on myself. I skimmed through the recipe — it said something about browning meat and onions first. Now to me that just didn’t make sense. Why cook the meat and onions first when they were just going to have to go into another pot to cook again? Instead, I took a shortcut and threw all the ingredients into one big pot and turned up the stove good and high so it would cook faster. Why have chili for dinner when we could have it for lunch? Doing things my way saved not only time, but also meant one less frying pan to wash up. Satisfied that maybe I was better at cooking than I gave myself credit for, I strolled outside.

“You’re finished already?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“You followed the recipe, right?” Aunt Margaret asked.

“Don’t be so suspicious. I followed it more or less.”

She narrowed her eyes. “More or less? That’s Great-Aunt Beatrix’s recipe, and if it’s done right, it really is the greatest chili on earth.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Margaret. You’ll see — it’ll be fine. And I’ll bet even GAB would be happy.”

“GAB … what’s that?”

“Really? GAB — Great-Aunt Beatrix, of course!”

Aunt Margaret rolled her eyes at me.

For the next hour I painted windowsills and doors with glossy white paint. I had to admit my mind wasn’t on the job and there was nearly as much paint on the grass and sidewalk as on the house. All I could think about was how much I wanted to go with Eddy to Newfoundland. It was nearly noon when the phone rang and Aunt Margaret ran to get it.

A few minutes later I had a horrible thought. What if the caller was Eddy? What if she figured out a way for me to go? Would Aunt Margaret tell me about it? Or would she tell Eddy I was too busy to go because I had to stay and help her paint? I wasn’t going to take a chance on it and dashed into the kitchen. When I opened the door, a thick, hazy swirl seeped out of the kitchen and smelled like burnt tires. As I stepped inside, Aunt Margaret was throwing open the windows and fanning the air.

“Who was on the phone?” I asked casually.

“Are you kidding me? Who cares about the phone? Peggy, can’t you see what’s happened — the chili boiled over and was burning on the stove element! With the amount of fat on the surface we’re just lucky it didn’t start a fire.”

That was when I noticed the stove and floor for the first time. It seemed as if a volcano had erupted. “Sorry about that. I guess I turned it on a little too high.” She handed me the paper towel and I started to wipe up the floor. “So, anyway, did you catch who was on the phone?” I asked again. Aunt Margaret growled, and I knew if I looked her in the eye I’d see she was giving me one of her one-eyed glares.

“You not only turned it on too high but clearly you either didn’t cook the meat first or you failed to drain off the fat.” She threw me a wet washcloth. “And as for who was on the phone, I didn’t get a chance to answer, but I’m grateful he or she was calling. Otherwise we could be fighting a fire right now.” She dragged out the mop and bucket and began filling it with water. “Really, Peggy, were you just trying to prove you really are a bad cook so I’d never ask you again?”

“Harsh, Aunt Margaret,” I shot back.

“Well, you’re going to have to learn to cook better sooner or later unless you plan on eating toast and cereal your whole life,” she said.

I didn’t respond. As far as I was concerned, living off toast and cereal didn’t sound too bad to me. Besides, learning to cook better wasn’t necessary when you could just open a package or hit the drive-through.

For the rest of the day, every time the phone rang I nearly went berserk, hoping it was Eddy calling to give me some good news. But each time it wasn’t her I plunged deeper into despair, seeing days and weeks ahead of me, spent slapping paint onto my aunt’s old house. As far as I was concerned, there was only one good reason to have a paintbrush in hand — and that was for brushing away sand and dirt from an ancient artifact or burial.

Then, just when I thought I was as low as I could get, Eddy called. When Aunt Margaret handed me the phone, my knees were shaking.

“Hi, Eddy. I was hoping I’d hear from you. Got some good news for me?” Her silence made me feel like a balloon with a tiny hole, and I was slowly deflating.

“Hi, Peggy. I’m leaving about five tomorrow morning. Probably won’t get to L’Anse aux Meadows until late evening. I just wanted to say goodbye …” Silence again. “I really did try every angle and there’s just nothing I can do. I’m afraid you’ll have to sit this one out.”

I sank onto the chair as the news settled in my mind. “That’s okay,” I said in my best pretend-cheerful voice. “Have a good trip, and I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Is there anything I can bring you?” Eddy asked.

Pushing my disappointment aside, I tried to think of something. “How about one of those cheesy Viking helmets with the horns? That would be kind of classic.”

“Sure thing. I bet some gift shop there will have them. Although you should know that horns on Viking helmets are all fiction and Hollywood.”

“No horns on their helmets? Geez, another blow.” After that I could tell the conversation was getting awkward, so I wished Eddy a good trip and hung up.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all over with,” came a voice from behind me. I quickly turned to see Aunt Margaret standing in the doorway. I’d forgotten she was there. “Now maybe you’ll get focused on other things — like getting more paint on the house and less on the grass. And if you’re good, I’ll teach you how to make chili the right way.”

“Oh, goodie gumdrops, I can hardly wait.” I clapped my hands as if I were three.

Aunt Margaret shook her head and gave me a look that said, Peggy, you’re such a weird kid.