Читать книгу Bone Deep - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 6

It was Sunday afternoon and everyone in the house was in a stink — the floors had to be scrubbed, the curtains vacuumed, dozens of knickknacks dusted — all because Great Aunt Beatrix was coming to visit. There couldn’t have been more fuss made had she been the Queen of England coming for her Diamond Jubilee. On top of having to give up a perfectly good Sunday in early June to clean house, I was expected to vacate my bedroom too.

“My room! Why does Aunt Beatrix get my room?” I blurted when I first got the news. “Where am I supposed to read, or do homework, or eat in peace?”

“Oh Peggy,” Mom snorted. “You sound like Eeyore.” I hated it when she compared me to characters in Winnie-the-Pooh.… When was she ever going to remember I wasn’t a little kid? “Besides, you know Aunt Margaret doesn’t like it when you eat in your room.” Mom was changing the subject, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

“I still don’t get why I have to be the one to sleep on the sofa. She’s your aunt — why don’t you give up your room, or for that matter why not Aunt Margaret?” Just then the very same queen of clean charged into the room.

“Lizzy, for crying out loud … have you looked at the clock? She’ll be here in an hour.” Then Aunt Margaret caught sight of me. “Peggy, did you change your sheets? And did you pull out all the dirty socks from under the bed? And what about that gunk stuck on your nightstand … tell me you managed to scrape it off!”

“It’s not gunk. I told you, it’s my gum collection!” My aunt’s eyes narrowed and Mom coughed nervously. “Yes, Aunt Margaret, I changed the sheets, put my smelly socks in the laundry, and left everything in my room spic-and-span, including the nightstand.” She smiled skeptically and then tore off to the kitchen. It was tough living with my freakishly tidy Aunt Margaret and even worse when visitors came. At times like this even my mild-mannered Uncle Stewart made excuses to get out of the house and out of her way.

“Thank you, Peggy. I know it’s not your thing, but making everything perfect for Great Aunt Beatrix’s visit is important, especially to Aunt Margaret. Anything you can do to make it easier is appreciated.”

It’s hard to be mad at my mom. She’s the kind of person who works really hard — even when she doesn’t have to; always puts the needs of others first; and tiptoes around my nitpicky Aunt Margaret just to keep the peace. One thing’s for certain — if Mom and I could afford a house of our own she would never sacrifice an entire Sunday to house cleaning.

“You go and do the bathroom while I get the good china down from the shelf,” Mom suggested.

Now, cleaning the bathroom has got to be the worst chore in the world and under normal circumstances I’d complain about being asked to do it. But when Mom said the words good china a chill swept over me and I tore up the stairs as fast my legs could carry me. The china she was referring to was the blue and white porcelain dinner set Aunt Beatrix had passed down to my Aunt Margaret. It had been in the family for a zillion years and was only used on special occasions. It was displayed on top of a tall shelf in the dining room — a room we hardly ever went in. A room I happened to chase Duff into after school one day when we were playing a game of cat and mouse. When I accidentally chucked his catnip on top of the china cabinet he scooted up the curtain, then jumped over to retrieve it. That’s when he suddenly met with the delicately patterned blue and white teapot, and some cups and saucers sitting on top. When it all came smashing to the floor I thought I would never breathe again. Fortunately for me there was no one else home and I had time to get out the glue. When the shattered pieces didn’t stick right away I wrapped them with tape. I’d meant to go back and take it off but it wasn’t long before I forgot all about the broken china … that is until the very moment Mom mentioned getting it down from the shelf.

I ran into the bathroom and shut the door and braced myself for what was certain to be a scene involving a lot of screaming. That’s when I remembered I’d forgotten to bring up the toilet scrubber and cleaning rags. There was no way I was going back down there and risk hastening a face-to-face confrontation. While I waited for the inevitable I looked under the sink for some cleaning supplies. There were only towels.

They would have to do. I used the brown towel on the toilet … seemed the best choice. The pink one I used to wipe the sink and mirror, and then mopped the floor with it. All the while I waited for some kind of shriek that sounded like: PEGGY HENDERSON, GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE NOW! But it didn’t come. Soon the bathroom was clean — well, at least it looked good to me. That’s when I realized I’d have to do something with the dirty towels. I was sure Aunt Margaret wouldn’t notice if I just neatly refolded them and put them back under the sink. That’s just what I was doing when I heard Mom call my name — only her voice sounded rather sweet, not a hint of anger.

“Peggy, if you’ve finished cleaning the bathroom — properly — would you come down here and say hello to your Great Aunt Beatrix? She’s arrived a little … um … early.” I snickered when I thought about what was running through Aunt Margaret’s mind. She was probably sweating over the dust still on the lampshades and the stacks of magazines in the hall.

“Okay, Mom — happy to!” I answered in an equally sweet voice — though I was sure Mom would recognize it as classic Peggy sarcasm.

When I got downstairs Mom whispered, “Did you do a good job?” I nodded. “Peggy?”

“Perfect — right down to folding the towels.” I smiled as sincerely as possible. Just then I glanced over to the shelf in the dining room and noticed the broken china teapot was still perched at the top. I sighed with relief. They must have changed their minds about using it. Bravo, Peggy — you dodged that bullet. Suddenly feeling much happier than I thought I would, I bounced into the living room and found Great Aunt Beatrix sitting on the sofa.

“Hello, Aunt Beatrix,” I blurted. At first she seemed startled and snorted at me in surprise. She was dressed in a green wool skirt that was tucked up under her well-endowed bosom and it gave the overall impression of her being some sort of human pear. At the end of her stubby arms were lots of silver bangles and her thin white hair was drawn up on the top of her head in a wispy bun.

“Oh, Peggy, you’re so thin and tall.” Was that supposed to be a compliment? “Now would that be the same hockey shirt you were wearing the last time we met?” I looked down at my slightly rumpled Canucks jersey with the ketchup stain.

“Yup, it’s my favourite shirt.” For some reason Mom’s face turned the same shade of pink as the freshly cut peonies in the vase.

“And your hair … is that the way young people are styling their hair these days?”

I smoothed my hands over my messy hair. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems some girls have taken to colouring their hair purple, others have feathers … I just wondered if your mass of tangles was another new style.”

“Naw, just didn’t bother brushing it, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m glad you didn’t go to any trouble on my account.” I noticed that Aunt Margaret was nervously picking at the pills on her sweater.

“Oh, I went to plenty of trouble on your account. Aunt Margaret had me up at seven o’clock scrubbing —”

“Aunt Beatrix,” Aunt Margaret butted in. “I’m sure you must be ready for some refreshment after your long drive.” I wondered why Aunt Margaret seemed to be on pins and needles around Great Aunt Beatrix. No matter to me really, I was just waiting for the right moment to make my escape.

TB and I were going for a bike ride down to Blackie’s Spit. He’s my best friend and has the dorkiest name on Earth — Thorbert. His dad named him that after some old Viking guy. When we met I could never say it with a straight face so I started calling him TB. Now everyone except his parents calls him that — I’m pretty sure it’s a nickname that’s saved him countless hours of teasing at school.

“The water is boiled. Should I make the tea?” called Uncle Stewart from the kitchen.

“Oh, I didn’t get the teapot down yet,” said Mom. “I’ll do that right now.” There was a sudden rush of blood to my face, and I felt dizzy.

“That would be delightful, Elizabeth. I so enjoy it when we have an opportunity to use the family heirloom china.” Aunt Beatrix turned to me and scowled. “Peggy, dear, stop fidgeting with your fingernails. It isn’t ladylike.” I couldn’t help myself. If she knew what was going to happen next she’d be fidgeting too. Then it came, a startling wail from the kitchen that sounded like the cat’s tail had been banged in the cupboard door.

“Peggy, come in here — right now,” Mom demanded from the kitchen.

“Oh dear, it sounds like we have a problem. Is there anything I can do?” Aunt Beatrix called. I gulped back my nervousness and wondered if I should make a run for it. I had taken two steps towards the front door when Aunt Margaret came into the room with a tear-streaked face.

“Peggy, don’t you even think about it,” Aunt Margaret said in a trembling voice. “You’ll have to excuse us, Aunt Beatrix. We have a situation and need Peggy to clear it up.” The blood that had suddenly rushed in now drained just as quickly from my face and I weakly followed my aunt to the kitchen.

“Perhaps I should make the tea while you take care of whatever it is,” Great Aunt Beatrix offered. Aunt Margaret went even paler than me — if that was actually possible.

“No thank you, Aunt Beatrix. Your tea is on its way — won’t be more than a couple of minutes.” Aunt Margaret narrowed her eyes to two scary slits and pointed to the kitchen. When I walked in Mom was bent over the table peeling tape off of the teacups. When she glanced up I could see in her eyes that my life was in danger.

“Explain to me — and quickly — what happened to my china, Peggy? And don’t even think of lying.” I’d seen Aunt Margaret mad a lot of times, but never this bad.

“Well, one day after school Duff was all frisky, you see. He was tearing around the place like a crazy possessed maniacal —”

“Just get to the point,” my aunt snapped.

“Like I was about to say … he was tearing around when all of a sudden he latched onto the curtains and climbed up on the top of the shelf. That’s when he knocked the china down.” I decided for the time being it was best to leave off the part about me accidentally tossing his catnip up there. Since Duff was my aunt’s cat I was pretty sure he’d be safe. It was my safety that I was worried about.

“Why didn’t you say anything when it happened?” Aunt Margaret growled.

“Well, it was like five months ago.” She gasped. “I thought maybe once the glue was set it would be okay. Then I forgot all about it.” If there had been a club handy I sensed she would have used it. “It was an unfortunate accident, but let’s get some perspective … they’re only dishes, and it’s not like they ever get used.” Another gasp, but this time it was from my mom.

“We don’t use them because they’re very valuable and old — well over a hundred years, in fact. We only use them for special occasions … like this.” Aunt Margaret’s lips quivered. “They were given to me by Aunt Beatrix, who got them from her grandmother, and before that they came from some other distant relative. Do you realize how many generations these dishes go back?” I was in the process of doing the math, when Aunt Margaret fell onto the chair and started sobbing. “Aunt Beatrix expects us to serve tea in that teapot. Now what am I supposed to do?”

I started to offer some suggestions but Mom stopped me.

“Peggy, I don’t want to hear it. You’ve completely missed the point here. This china means a lot to Aunt Margaret. She treasures it. I know an accident is an accident but it was irresponsible of you to not tell us about what happened. Not only is it a shame these dishes were broken, but you have put us in an awkward situation. I think you should go to your room and think about what you’ve done. And while you’re there you’d better craft your apology speech and a have a plan for making amends.” I hung my head and headed for the stairs.

“Stop,” Aunt Margaret hissed. “You can’t go there — it’s Aunt Beatrix’s room for now. Just … just … go outside. I don’t want to see you right now.”

Outside? I did my best to look like I detested the idea and shuffled to the back door. Then as soon as I could I scooted down the stairs and snatched my bike and helmet as fast as I could and rode off with the wind whistling past my ears.

That night I had a hard time sleeping, and it wasn’t because of the lumpy sofa. First I’d been expelled from my room, and then I got reamed out over some crumby old broken teapot and cups, followed by Aunt Beatrix’s snide observations about my sloppy posture and lack of fashion sense. If that wasn’t bad enough, I got shrieked at again just before bed when Aunt Margaret found out the towels she gave Aunt Beatrix were the wet and dirty ones I’d used for cleaning the bathroom.

How was I going to survive two weeks of this? I needed to find a way to stay clear of Great Aunt Beatrix and Aunt Margaret. I was actually glad there was school the next day. Just then I remembered my class had a field trip in the morning to the Vancouver Maritime Museum. Maybe by the time I got home everyone would be calmed down.

“Welcome,” beckoned a pretty young woman as we stepped inside the museum. Usually on museum field trips we got retired grandmothers who led the tours, but this one wasn’t old at all, maybe mid-twenties. “I’m Amanda Marsh, your guide today here at the Vancouver Maritime Museum. If I can just get you to leave your bags here we’ll get started in the main gallery by viewing the museum’s pride and joy — the St. Roch — a schooner built a hundred years ago.” We followed Amanda into a high ceilinged room filled from top to bottom with an old sailing ship. Its size took me by surprise and I felt dizzy looking up to the tip of the mast.

“How did they get this ship inside the building?” TB asked Amanda.

“They didn’t put the ship in the building. They built the building around it. A lot simpler, don’t you think?” Amanda told us more about the St. Roch’s history, like how it used to be a Royal Canadian Mounted Police ship. Then we got to go aboard. As I looked over the deck and up to the top of the sails I thought about the sailing lessons I’d taken the summer before. We only got to sail tiny skiffs, but the instructor, Vic Torino, or the Tornado as we called him, had a really nice boat he took us sailing on. Even though he was a seriously weird guy, I did learn a lot of things, like how to maneuver the rudder and set the sail, how to read the gauges and maps, and mastered at least eight different kinds of knots.

As we toured the St. Roch, Amanda told us stories of adventure and danger of the old seafaring men of the past. We learned about Captain Cook and Captain Vancouver too. Vancouver surveyed and mapped the West Coast in the late 1700s. We learned that his navigational charts helped to open up the Pacific Ocean to a lot of other explorers and put the West Coast fur trade into high gear.

“Being an explorer was an adventurous lifestyle, but it was dangerous too and took men far from their homes and families for long periods of time,” explained Amanda.

With everyone at home so mad at me, the idea of sailing away on a ship sounded like a good plan. Maybe not for months or years, but a couple of weeks would be nice. By the time I got back Great Aunt Beatrix would have gone home, the broken china forgotten, and things back to normal. Just then I had an idea. “Are we going to learn anything about sunken ships?” I asked.

Amanda smiled at my question. “You’re jumping ahead of me, but as a matter of fact we are going to learn about a field of study that involves sunken ships. Can anyone tell me what archaeology is?”

Amanda’s question caught me by surprise, but my hand shot up. When it comes to archaeology I’m practically an expert. That’s because one of my best friends is an archaeologist. Her name is Dr. Edwina McKay, but I call her Eddy. I helped her with two professional investigations — the first involved digging up the remains of an ancient Coast Salish man in Crescent Beach where I live. And the second was rescuing a disturbed burial in the historic cemetery of Golden — it’s one of those old railway towns in northern B.C. On top of that I’m a regular subscriber to Dig magazine and I’m a member of the Crescent Beach Archaeological Society.

“Archaeology uses things people made, or the places they lived and worked, or even their bodily remains to learn about humankind’s past. These artifacts are often in the ground, so you have to dig them up — but not like you’re digging for treasure. It has to be done carefully — there’s a method to it.”

“That’s a great definition of archaeology,” said Amanda. “So do archaeologists only recover artifacts in the ground?”

“Most often, although artifacts might also be found in places like caves or old temples or even out in the open if the soil has eroded away.” I was thinking of where I lived again. In Crescent Beach, lots of people have found things that belonged to the early Coast Salish right on the surface, like arrowheads, hammerstones, and scrapers. It’s not surprising since they lived in the area for about five thousand years.

“So where do things like sunken ships fit in to your definition?” Amanda asked. I admit I didn’t know much about how sunken ships and archaeology went together. “Have you ever heard of underwater archaeology? It’s a branch of maritime archaeology.”

TB snickered. “Looks like Indiana Jones Junior still has a thing or two to learn,” he whispered. If I wasn’t so keen on listening to Amanda I might have planted a big red welt on the back of his neck as a souvenir of our field trip.

“So just how do you dig under water?” I asked, completely focused on this new idea. “Moving all that sand and soil would make it pretty cloudy and hard to see anything. And when you find artifacts — how do they get to the surface without damage? And what about properly recording the site?” I was glad when Amanda laughed, because I could tell that my teacher, Mrs. Sparrow, was about to hush me for asking so many questions.

“It’s nice to have a student who is so enthusiastic. And those are all good questions. For obvious reasons excavating a maritime site is quite different from those done on dry land. However, there are several aspects that are the same. Like the site would need to be surveyed and its position recorded, some kind of a grid set out to mark the area of study, and in some cases sediment would need to be moved — perhaps by a special vacuum system that filters out the water but catches any objects sucked up. And because it’s important to document and record as much information as possible, a good underwater camera and waterproof paper and pens come in handy.” Then Amanda looked at me and winked. “Of course the first thing an underwater archaeologist would need to know is how to scuba dive.”

By the time I got home that day I could tell the cat was out of the bag. Aunt Margaret was curt, Mom quiet, and Aunt Beatrix, who was drinking tea out of a mug, clicked her dentures resentfully the whole night until she went off to bed — my bed. But I didn’t care because I’d had a great day. Even sleeping on the sofa couldn’t spoil it. As I was dozing off I thought about what Amanda said about anyone serious about underwater archaeology would have to learn to dive. Tomorrow I’d pick Eddy’s brain and then afterwards I’d figure out how to get Mom to let me take scuba diving lessons.