Bodies and Sole by Hilary MacLeod Page B

from the truck with an unusual air of confidence. There were the requisite oohs and ahs upon sight of the bride. But some of the oohs – from the direction of the Women’s Institute group sounded more like “ew.”
    If Moira heard it, she chose to ignore it. She lifted her skirt so as not to get Red Island clay on it, and, head high, Moira, the Mi’kmaw bride, took a few steps forward and slid on the same pile of poo as Hy. But she went down and landed right in it.
    Hy came tearing down the wharf, slipping and sliding, to help her up.
    â€œMy dress. My God.”
    â€œWe’ll clean it up. It’ll be fine.” For the second time in a week, Hy felt truly sorry for Moira. She wasn’t crying – yet – but her eyes were swimming with tears and mascara was running down her cheeks. Bad to worse.
    Hy scurried back to Cat’s, leaving Moira to the inept commiserations of Ian. Cat, standing outside his door, had seen the whole thing.
    â€œA cloth…some water…soap…” Hy panted.
    He just stood there, shaking his head.
    â€œNope.” It sounded like.
    â€œNope?”
    He shook his head again, and spoke more distinctly.
    â€œNo hope.”
    â€œNo hope?”
    â€œNo hope.” He gestured in Moira’s direction. She was now clinging onto Ian and sobbing into his shoulder. He was looking exceptionally uncomfortable, patting her back.
    â€œOhmigod.” Hy pointed at the back of Moira’s skirt.
    It was happening in front of their eyes.
    â€œIt’s disintegrating.”
    â€œYup. Told you. Enzymes and stuff. Not good. Not good.”
    â€œNo. Not good at all.”
    When Hy got back to Moira, slumped in Ian’s arms, the entire backside of the skirt had disintegrated. Frank had run down from the end of the pier and relieved Ian, trying to console her, with no success. Cat produced an oilskin jacket, and Frank, Hy and Ian helped Moira back into Ian’s truck. He had spread a copy of The Guardian newspaper on the passenger seat.
    Moira wept all the way home, and wouldn’t let Frank in when he showed up shortly after.
    Another unsuccessful wedding.
    Would there be a third?
    Would it be third time lucky?
    And whatever was the bride going to wear?
    The fish skin outfit had already found its way into the compost bin.
    Hy didn’t dare phone Moira or drop by. And she quickly copied Marie’s letter, certain that Moira would demand it back.

Chapter Seventeen
    www.theshores200.com
    The Macks are, and have been for 200 years, the most prominent family in The Shores. They truly can lay claim to having had an ancestor who swam ashore from the sinking Annabella. A 15-year-old boy from Ireland, he no sooner landed than he began procreating with local Irish, Scots, English, Welsh, Mi’kmaw and French lasses. But his legitimate line became the first white settlers in The Shores and he quickly established himself as fisherman, farmer, general-store owner and informal banker.
    She was home.
    The tongues would be wagging shortly, with something worth wagging about. Maybe that was why she was taking her time on this last leg of the journey.
    She’d been surprised herself that the Campbell Causeway that joined The
    Shores to the rest of Red Island was still under construction. It almost always was.
    Of course, she’d heard about the catastrophe several years before that had ripped the causeway in two, destroyed five houses, pushed cars into the water, tossed boats up onto the road, and killed nine people, all within thirteen-and-a-half minutes.
    The province had fixed the causeway, but never well, and provided a small open car ferry, bought from a neighbouring province, to provide regular seasonal service in place of the causeway.
    She found it pleasant taking the old river ferry the short distance across the inlet. She felt like taking her time to return home. Reluctant to get the gossiping tongues going? Maybe, a bit. But she felt more