Excerpted: The Weather Diviner

Elizabeth Murphy’s novel The Weather Diviner (Breakwater Books) tells the captivating story of a young woman’s journey of self-discovery in 1942 Newfoundland, where American soldiers, tempestuous weather, and wartime opportunity collide.

Read a passage from chapter three of the novel in which Violet contemplates leaving her isolated, storm-battered environment for a new life.

The cover of The Weather Diviner by Elizabeth Murphy.

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Excerpted.

An excerpt from The Weather Diviner
by Elizabeth Murphy (Breakwater Books)

From Chapter Three

I was studying my sketches of snowdrifts when I heard Maryanne stomp her boots in the porch. The door opened and she plumped down in her usual chair. “The rascal is at it again, trying to get into the chicken coop. I saw his tracks in the path you shovelled. One of these days, I’ll nab that darn fox, skin him alive, and drape his furry hide round my neck.”

I folded my arms close to my chest to block the draft. “You could use pieces of sea glass for the eyes,” I said. “On my next visit to the beach, I’ll search for the right colour.”

“Don’t be teasing.” She slid the open journal toward her. “Adapting the Beaufort Wind Scale and Douglas Sea Scale for local conditions.” She licked her finger to turn the page. “Monthly wind speed averages correlated with temperature, whatever that means.” She closed it, then drummed her fingers on top. “Was it you or your father told me forecasts were important for the war?”

“Me. Weather systems, fronts, and storms normally travel left to right, west to east—for example, from Newfoundland to the German-occupied Atlantic coast of France. If the Allies were planning an invasion in those parts, they’d want to consult our forecasts.”

“What about for us crowd here on the island?”

“Think of all the aerial surveillance, patrols for U-boats, and convoy protection. Those pilots can’t take to the air without accurate measures of wind speed and direction, plenty more besides. Mariners need to know what types of swell they might face, whether there’s a risk of having equipment covered in ice.” I glanced at her sideways. “Where are you headed with this talk, Maryanne?”

“Where do you think? You’re right what the Americans need.”

“A journal writer?”

“Never mind your foolishness. An expert forecaster.”

“The Americans have their own meteorologists.”

“What do they know about the mysteries of weather on this island?” She pulled her shawl tight around her chest. “Most of them haven’t suffered a full winter here yet. Wait till they realize the winds got a mind of their own. Watch them shake their heads when the fog’s got them drove blind.”

“They’ll catch on before the game’s over.”

“Catch on, yes. Catch up, never. You got a head start by twenty years. When you were a youngster, you couldn’t be bothered with dolls, knitting and cooking. You’d be outside finding clues in the clouds, weighing the air, measuring, counting.”

I remembered lecturing to my doll, Stella, about the number of days needed to count to one million. No wonder her head fell off. Knitting, with its basis in patterns, earned my respect as an observer. Cooking might have interested me if Maryanne paid attention to exact measurements instead of relying on guesses—a cup here, a cup there. “Their forecasters have degrees in science and mathematics. I can’t compete with them.”

“How can they be any better than a girl who spent her life spying on the weather’s secret habits, learning its tricks, understanding its mischief? You heard of Lauchie McDougall at Wreckhouse. The railway company pays him twenty dollars a month to watch for signs, smelling the wind, letting them know if the weather’s safe to run its trains. He’s like you—a proper weather diviner.”

“My senses are very attuned to natural phenomena, and my mind is quick to see and interpret patterns, but my forecasts also rely on science and mathematics.”

“And you got the journals to prove it.”

“Except they want office girls, not weather diviners or amateur forecasters.”

“If you were a man, would you be talking like that?”

“If I was a man, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. I’d probably end up staying here as keeper.”

“You’d be pounding on the American Army’s door, ordering them to hurry up and give you an office.”

“I’m certain it doesn’t work that way.”

“Thinking things already work a certain way is the biggest mistake ever made. Especially for women. Make it work.”

I stared through the window, my view somewhere in the offing between shore and horizon, my mind lost in the blank space between now and then, here and there. Predicting weather was possible, especially in the short range—predicting anything to do with my near or far future, impossible. The war didn’t help. So much was changing so fast, the best anyone could do was adapt.

“Thanks for the nudge to stop stalling, postponing, avoiding—whatever I’ve been doing for the last five months. A maid is out of the question. A confectioner’s assistant sounds appetizing, but unlikely. An office girl for the American Army might work, though how I’ll get from there to being a forecaster is a mystery to me.”

“One step at a time, Violet. Get a foot in the door. Before long, the men in the office will be asking you if bad weather’s on the horizon. Should they wear rubber boots or leather shoes? Tell their wives to go ahead and hang out the washing? Next thing you know, the captains will be asking if it’s a safe day to set sail or take to the skies.”

“As you say, ‘Never mind your foolishness.’”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Not about the diploma, you aren’t.”

Maryanne tapped on the journal. “You got something better. The war’s shaken things up. No need to play by the old rules. Flaunt your know-how. Brag about your skills. Push open doors and see where they lead. Keep going until you get somewhere you want to be.”

“Supposing you’re right, I can’t leave in the dead of winter. The steamer to Lewisporte could be blocked by ice, the train to St. John’s by snow at the Gaff Topsails. Worst of all, there’s the ride to Pine Harbour in Fred’s dory.”

“A bit of snow or ice won’t trouble the train or steamer. Fred neither. He’s been coming to this crag since before you were born, brought your parents here.” She rested her hands on the table, her head leaning over them. “He’ll get you to Pine Harbour quick and dry.” 

“You’re forgetting those times weather forced him to postpone his delivery, we almost ran out of kerosene or flour and waited on news of the world. Dorothy’s cyclone would be safer than the North Atlantic in February or March.”

Maryanne folded her arms, the wool flattened on her sleeve from resting her elbows on the table. “Make a deal with the new keeper. Be his helper like you were with your father. Hold onto the rooms upstairs. The room in the base of the tower will do him till you leave after Easter.”

“If you came with me, I wouldn’t mind the journey.”

She opened the oven door and rubbed her hands over the rising heat. “Fifty years ago, I’d be tagging along, smiling. The eighteen nineties are so far gone I barely believe I lived them. Sun, salt, and wind got me whittled down worse than the tuckamore, needles blown off, cracked and brittle.”

There’d be no tuckamore in the city, only streets crammed with motor cars, houses, buildings, and with people who’d never seen that type of tree and never thought about natural forces that shape landscapes. “I wish I could bring the tuckamore with me.”

“Forget this place, me too. First thing in the city, scrub yourself clean of Crag Point. Buy yourself an outfit like the city girls wear. Tell the hair-dresser, ‘Cut off my long black braids.’ Get a look to show off your eyes, big and brown like a rabbit’s. Walk out sparkling new, chin up, chest out, ‘America, here I come.’ That’s what I’d do in your lucky place.”

If I’d been lucky, Vati would be alive and I wouldn’t be forced to abandon my home in wartime—or ever. In any case, I’d need more than luck in mid-April. That departure date coincided with the thirtieth anniversary of the Titanic‘s sinking near the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, a tragedy I blamed on the weather. A cold front had brought an Arctic air mass with clear skies and a barely visible moon. The water’s surface shone smooth as glass. Without swell or waves, the water didn’t break against the iceberg. To the two lookout men, therefore, the mountain of ice remained invisible in the dark. Someone should have warned them of the dangers ahead. Someone like me.

* * *

A photo of Elizabeth Murphy. She is a light skin-toned woman with greyish hair and blue eyes. She is wearing a black turtleneck and standing against a white wall, looking into the camera at an angle.

Born and raised in Newfoundland, Elizabeth Murphy spent her professional career in a variety of educational roles as teacher, administrator, and professor. She completed her Ph.D. in Quebec, won awards for her research and writing while working at Memorial University, and served as a visiting professor in Bangkok. Nova Scotia is where she now lazes, reads, writes, and dreams of summer back home on the island and winter far away in Thailand. The Weather Diviner is her second novel.