Читать книгу Peggy Henderson Adventures 4-Book Bundle - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 8

TB got the okay to start scuba lessons with me. So the plan was for me to stop off at home after school to say hello to Aunt Beatrix for five minutes — Mom’s idea, not mine — and then ride to the pool with him. But when Mrs. Sparrow kept me in to discuss my poor score on the English test I had to let him go ahead on his own and skip going home. By the time I got there the other students were already in their gear and sitting on the edge of the pool. As I walked over to the group I heard a voice from somewhere in my past. I couldn’t quite place it until I saw him.

“No, it can’t be,” I cursed. By the look on TB’s face he knew what I meant. Just then the diving instructor looked up at me. Yup, it was none other than the face of Vic Torino, a.k.a. the Tornado, my sailing instructor from last summer. He hadn’t changed a bit — still tall, skinny, and tanned so dark and shiny he looked like an oily hot dog fresh off the BBQ.

“Late for the first class, eh? Not a good sign, man. You know what they say about punctuality — it’s the early worm that catches the bird.” A few of the students tittered. I looked at TB, who was doing his best to muffle his laughter.

“Don’t you mean it’s the early bird who catches the worm?” I answered, trying not to laugh myself.

“Well, whatever, it’s a virtue to be on time, right?”

“True, but you know what they also say — better late than never.” I could see he was trying to add that one up.

“Yah, that’s true, man. Hey, you took sailing lessons with me last summer, right?” I nodded guiltily. “You see, I never forget a face. Never forget a name either — it’s Patsy, right? No, Pammy. No wait, I know it’s …”

“It’s Peggy,” I asserted, ending the familiar and slow torture.

“Oh yah, Penny.” Argh! Well at least he didn’t call me Piggy like my bratty little cousins did. “Well girl, don’t just stand there. Go and get suited up and we’ll see you back here in the pool.” I skulked off, glad to be out of the spotlight.

Before we actually got in the pool Tornado gave us the rundown on what we would learn in the PADI diving course. We were going to learn safety procedures — like how to check all our gauges, how to get water out of our masks, buoyancy control, how to make a safe descent and ascent, and some emergency skills like sharing air with a dive partner. He said after two weeks in the pool we’d be ready for our first supervised open-water dive. That was the part I was most excited about.

“Okay, newbies, let’s get in the pool and I’ll go over proper buoyancy control and the four main points on your personal dive list — depth, air, time, and area. We call that your DATA. Some people write it on their hands so they don’t forget. Me — I’ve got a mind like a steel trap — never forget a thing.… Right, Pammy? I mean Patty!” Oh brother, what a doorknob!

That first day I felt like a stuffed sausage in my wet suit, but it wasn’t long before it started to feel more like a second skin. And with help from my flippers I loved the feeling of gliding up and down the length of the pool like a sleek black seal. There was no doubt about it, scuba diving was my thing and I was going to be even better at it than sailing.

The day Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stewart left on their cruise was bittersweet. It took no time at all for life at home without them to take on a predictable routine — school, diving lessons, then evenings of torture by Great Aunt Beatrix. Besides setting the table and reciting grace before every supper, I had to learn about the history of that stupid china that Duff broke.

“Did you know that the Chinese exported porcelains, such as this, to Europeans as far back as the 1600s?” asked Aunt Beatrix one evening just before suppertime. “It was held in such high esteem that the English word for it soon became china — for the place it originated.”

“Fascinating.… Now can we eat?”

“Oh, pishposh. We’ll eat in a few minutes. Now one special thing about our family’s china — besides the fact that it came directly from China by traders — is its pattern.” She pointed to the dainty blue -on-white pattern. “This is cobalt blue and was very valuable. It was first used more than a thousand years ago. The other thing you’ll want to notice is this small symbol on the bottom … each artist had his own unique mark or sign. It was important for the good artisans to identify themselves. The really gifted ones were invited to the palace to make pottery for the emperor. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“Mind-numbing.… Now can we eat?”

“Peggy, are you not hearing me? This very porcelain, which belonged to your great great great grandmother, is some of the oldest china in the country.” I could tell by the way her face was turning red Aunt Beatrix was quickly becoming annoyed with me. If I ever wanted this lecture to end with supper I knew I had to at least pretend some interest.

“Wow! So if it’s so rare and valuable why do they sell dishes just like it in the department store?” Aunt Beatrix gasped, like I’d said a four letter word.

“My dear, the only similarity between this porcelain and the tableware they sell in the stores is its pattern. This willow pattern — said to tell the sad story of two star-crossed lovers forbidden to love one another — has been copied over the centuries by many people.” Then she held up one of Aunt Margaret’s precious plates to the light on the kitchen ceiling. “For it to be truly fine china it must be translucent like this — you see?” I could see a clear shadow of her hand behind the plate. “This is the kind of china enjoyed by kings and queens, Peggy. The dishes sold in stores today are nothing but cheap replicas.”

Aunt Beatrix went on for another ten minutes, telling me how cobalt blue first came from Persia, that it was the kaolin clay found in China that gave porcelain its translucent quality, and that all the decorations were hand painted — which explained why there were small differences in each plate. She finally stopped after grinding in the fact that porcelain china made in the emperor’s Imperial factory had a nian hao — a Chinese date mark — painted on the bottom. There were only a small number of painters who had this job, so their style could be recognized like individualized handwriting.

So it was — night after night it was either a history lesson or what Aunt Beatrix liked to call practical life lessons. Like learning to polish the silver, make fruit preserves, and knit. Once supper was over and the dishes washed and put away the rest of the evening was mine. That’s when I read about diving, or the history of the Pacific fur trade, or underwater archaeology — things I really cared about. I especially enjoyed reading Captain Whittaker’s diary.

In the back of my mind I was also trying to figure out when it would be the perfect moment to pop the question about going with Dr. Hunter to find the Intrepid. Timing for this was everything — which is why I had to make sure I had enough stored up brownie points. That’s where Aunt Beatrix came in. I figured it was impossible for Mom not to have noticed how cooperative I was being with the cranky old history professor. After all, the agony of being her improvement project had to be worth something — something real big.

One night while I was studying my PADI diving manual Aunt Beatrix sat down across the table from me.

“I wish you took that kind of interest in your school work, Peggy. Maybe then you’d do better on your English tests,” she prodded. I was about to object when I caught Mom’s eye. She gave me the “let it go, Peggy” look.

“Aunt Beatrix, you do realize that the school year is nearly finished and the time for trying to get my teacher’s approval has long passed.” Mom shot me a look. Okay, I’ll be quiet … but I’m right.

“Aunt Bea, I’m just happy that she is so passionate about this course. I’m sure the skills she’s learning will spill over into other aspects of her life.” That was my signal — tonight I’d ask Mom about going on the research trip. I waited until it was time for bed.

“I know Aunt Beatrix can be frustrating, Peggy, but I think she really enjoys spending time with you. She says you remind her of when she was young,” Mom said as I snuggled under my blankets.

“She was young?” I asked, trying to look shocked. Mom ignored the question.

“She grew up in a different time, Peggy. A time when girls had few choices and the main goal was finding a man to marry. Then after that it was all about being the best homemaker for your family or best hostess for your husband’s business dinner parties. Who she became was partly due to the times she lived in.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be so bad if she would just stop trying to make me into Suzy homemaker or the queen of etiquette. Doesn’t she get it? Nobody cares about that stuff anymore.”

“True, but maybe they should.”

“Mom, are you serious? Who cares if you eat with your elbows on the table, or whether you reach across instead of asking for someone to ‘please pass the salt and pepper?’ And what’s the big deal about writing thank-you notes — I mean who does that stuff anyway?”

“Peggy, having good manners is more than just knowing which fork to use, or saying please and thank you. Etiquette is really about treating others with respect. Sometimes the smallest word and gesture can go a long way in maintaining harmony in a relationship. And remember, the quality of one’s life is best expressed in the small details. Those are the things that can set you apart.”

“Humph,” I grunted. “That sounds just like something Aunt Beatrix would say.” Mom smiled. “Mom, did you mean what you said about how my interest in diving might spill over into other parts of my life?”

“Sure, every new skill and bit of knowledge all adds up to making us more well-rounded people. I can’t say how diving is going to do that for you — it’s not exactly a skill you can use every day, but you never know.” I was just about to tell her about the Intrepid when Aunt Beatrix called from her room.

“Elizabeth, come here right away. This cat of Margaret’s has spit up something disgusting on the floor.”

“Sorry, Pegs. Let’s talk more in the morning.” Thanks to Aunt Beatrix and Duff, the magic moment was gone. Maybe tomorrow would be the day.

After Mom left the room I pulled out the captain’s journal. I tried to imagine what the original one looked like. Maybe it was bound in black leather. And the pages musky from age and so fragile they almost fell apart in your fingers. I closed my eyes and pictured the captain sitting at his desk, writing by candlelight, the ship swaying and creaking, the wind gently whistling, and the muffled voices of sailors on deck.

November 10th, 1811

We are now five weeks into our voyage and there is a growing and palpable uneasiness aboard the ship. It seems on most occasions Mister Lockhart is at the centre of it. Early yesterday morning Cook’s boy, Ellis, was caught pinching a penny’s worth of tobacco out of Mr. Lockhart’s pouch and I was forced to flog him. I detest brutality but it is my duty to keep strict discipline aboard the ship and to make it a warning to the others that stealing will not be tolerated. Had I not done it, I am sure Mister Lockhart would have snatched the whip from out of my hand and been happy to complete the task. He urged me menacingly to give the boy thirty lashes and cried out with disgust when I stopped at five. As unlikely as it sounds, I feel certain he was amused by the spectacle. I am even suspicious of why he left his pouch open on the table to begin with.

To cheer the mood I ordered the men be given an extra ration of salt beef and a shot of rum for supper. It did the job somewhat. Then Mister Foster, my assistant boatswain, suddenly hailed us all to come observe what at first appeared to be a large black wave in the distance. As the entity drew nearer it became clear it was a whale — one so massive that it nearly equaled the Intrepid in length and breadth. Indeed, when it came up side of us there was such a stir amongst the men I am sure the earlier events of the day were near forgotten.

Some of the men are skilled in harpooning and wanted to kill the great humped animal. I forbade them on the premise that such a catch would take too many days to process and would put us far behind our schedule. Secretly I had not the heart to destroy such a magnificent thing. In the moments after the creature breached the surface, time seemed to stand still. I had felt it gaze into my eyes — and the event moved me beyond words.

For hours we could hear its deep, haunting song across the sea as it trailed behind us. It went on into the night and I found myself drifting asleep to this strange lullaby of nature. When I woke hours later the whale’s song had ceased. In my long career as captain I never felt such deep loneliness. I yearn as never before to be once again amongst kin and hearth. I believe with all my heart this is to be my final voyage.

Captain James Whittaker