“Don’t think you’re fooling Tammy Younger. You ain’t got the brains or the balls.”
Tammy’s abuse followed him out of the clearing and a few yards onto the road, where the sky finally swallowed up her noise. The calm of the day put him in mind of Polly.
A bird set up a racket above him and reminded him of how Polly liked birds. She liked dogs, too, and wanted one for a pet, just like the little gray one that looked up at Judy Rhines with such devotion.
“Don’t I love you enough?” Oliver had asked.
“I want a dog to love me, too.”
“What about a pig?” he teased.
“Pigs, cows, chickens, dogs, everything but cats,” said Polly. “They give me the shivers.”
“No cats,” Oliver promised.
Thinking about Polly set him to humming. It was a
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sunny day and going into town was better than herding Tammy’s damned cows. He might even try to visit Polly again, even though she wasn’t keen on their being seen too much together. Oliver didn’t quite understand why she worried so about her reputation. Widows were above suspicion as far as he could tell, and she was born a Wharf, which set her even higher. But he would never argue the point with Polly, or any other, for that matter. He’d had enough cross words to last the rest of his days and he was determined to keep things between them peaceful.
With Polly to think about, the walk to Gloucester was nearly over before Oliver remembered that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He wondered what Everett might have on hand.
Everett Mansfield was Oliver’s favorite customer. Even though the ladies at the bakeshop were always good for a free loaf of day-old bread, Everett would set two chairs together and sit down for a friendly man-to-man about business, local politics, and his two little girls. He was sweeping out the shop when Oliver arrived. Reaching for the butter he said, “Well, if it isn’t young Mr. Younger.
I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“Tammy got a bee up her arse and churning is how she settles herself.”
Everett laughed. “I got someone waiting for this. Too bad it sells so high,” he said, as the two of them headed behind the counter. “I got some of my Susannah’s finger rolls here today and they would do it justice. How about some marmalade instead?”
Oliver grinned. Wouldn’t Tammy turn green if she knew he was eating English jam on her account?
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Everett was right to brag about his wife’s rolls and the marmalade was a revelation of tartness within sweetness.
Oliver wished there was a way he could save a spoonful for Polly.
His host was quieter than usual, chewing on his pipe instead of regaling him with stories about his Abby and little Ella. Everett pulled on his chin, trying to fix on a way to talk about what William Allen had said to him the other day. Allen had been in the store looking for a log of Tammy Younger’s butter. “The wife wants it,” he explained, as Allen himself was famously tightfisted.
“Why not buy it direct from Tammy?” Everett asked, as Allen was Tammy’s closest neighbor, and he might have saved himself some money that way.
“I haven’t talked to the old bitch in fifteen years.”
“Well, I don’t expect Oliver back here for at least a week.”
“Humph,” Allen snorted, filling the air between them with the smell of strong drink. “Do you think that boy is slow or stupid?”
Everett shrugged. He rarely expressed opinions about people: you agreed with one fellow about the meanness of his neighbor, and the next thing you knew, neither of them would buy from you, nor their wives. With the bakery and a dry goods store on the same block, a general storekeeper had to be careful about losing any trade.