Praise for Being Mary Ro
“A charming book.”
The Sudbury Star
“I cannot imagine anyone not enjoying Being Mary Ro. The material is suitable for mature young readers, contains small sketches (by Melissa Ashley Cromarty), and is an excellent first novel for Ms. Linehan Young.”
The Miramichi Reader
“We’re only halfway through the novel when Mary pulls the trigger. The strength and courage required to shoot the pistol is the same strength and courage that afterwards allows Mary to travel to . . . and pursue an independent career as a . . . I’m not telling. Find out for yourself. Read Being Mary Ro. It’s first-rate entertainment.”
The Telegram
Praise for The Promise
“A well-written story that many will want to read in one night . . . just because the plot is that good.”
Edwards Book Club
“Ida Linehan Young . . . evokes a time and a place and a strong female lead. She has also well-positioned this book to pilot into a follow-up. Her knowledge of, and research into, the processes pre-20th century household labour, or the state of the justice system after the 1892 fire, pay off.” — The Telegram
Flanker Press Limited
St. John’s
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The liars : a novel / Ida Linehan Young.
Names: Linehan Young, Ida, 1964- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200199188 | Canadiana (ebook) 2020019920X | ISBN 9781771178013
(softcover) | ISBN 9781771178020 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781771178037 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771178044 (PDF)
Classification: LCC PS8623.I54 L53 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
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© 2020 by Ida Linehan Young
all rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.
Printed in Canada
Cover Design by Graham Blair
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St. John’s, NL
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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
Dedication
The local store was the heart of every outport community and kept the life in many over the years. Any time I refer to a store in any of my books, I model it after my own great experiences in the little community of North Harbour, St. Mary’s Bay. Although we had many shops and even a snack bar for a summer or two, in my lifetime in the community, for me the heartbeat of North Harbour was at Sebastian (1933–2012) and Josephine Walsh’s store—Seb and Jos(e) to everyone who darkened their door.
Seb grew up in North Harbour with my mother, who was just a month older than him. He worked for a time in Argentia and St. John’s before returning home to fish. He ran a small shop out of the pantry at their homestead with his sister, Margaret. He met and married Jos (Collins), a teacher from Freshwater, Placentia Bay. Jos took over the main duties associated with the shop in 1960 and became a strong female influence for many of our generation. Seb started fishing full-time, first in a little motorboat, then a bigger skiff, before getting his first longliner in 1970, the year the youngest of his seven children was born.
Jos settled into life in North Harbour, made many friends, and raised their family. She was the reason we could buy a bottle of cola, a bag of flour, felt and tar for the roof, fruit (plums, apples, oranges, and grapes at Christmas), toys, paper glue and scribblers, trendy clothes for school, shoes and rubber boots, panes of glass for the many shattered windows, sheets and blankets, turkey necks, bread, milk—you get the picture. If you could name it, Jos would stock it.
She made up the bill at the end of every month, because most of the community shopped there on credit. I’m sure there were many families, including our own, who carried a balance month over month, and year over year, but were never denied anything (including cash, if needed), no matter how much was owed. I’m sure, though it wasn’t spoken, there were many times we didn’t go hungry because of the generosity of the shopkeepers.
Nobody went there too early or left there too late. Sometimes it was standing room only, a multitude of conversations, laughter, raised voices, hushed whispers—but no matter what, it was always the place we wanted to be. Even a crowd of loud teenagers were welcome. I have very happy memories associated with the busyness of the “shop.”
As a sign of the times, more people had access to vehicles, roads were built and improved, people commuted, the community opened up, and the “shop” evolved. Alas, in 2003, after more than forty-three years in business, the shop closed, and Seb and Jos began their well-deserved retirement. People adapted, as people do, and the significance of the community shop was lost on the younger generation who aren’t as “enclosed” now as we were then.
However, fond memories flow of my first taste of Pepsi, my first candy, my first school shirt (it was a mosaic of pink and purple hues on a polyester print), my first homemade pizza, and so many more firsts that happened because of the “shop.”
Several years ago, I was privileged to speak at their fiftieth wedding anniversary. However, I didn’t have time to prepare and didn’t get a chance to tell them how grateful and thankful I am to have been reared up by a “shop” such as theirs.
I would like to formally recognize the influential strength and perseverance of two of the greatest shopkeepers—Seb and Jos Walsh—as well as their entire civic-minded family, who do so much for the community of North Harbour, always my hometown.
For family and friends who so fully support me. For Sam and Parker, who don’t know what that means yet but who lift me up with love.
For Georgette, who finds the most fascinating things for me to write about and who keeps me out of trouble or gets in trouble with me.
For my secret book club, who provide solid counsel for my plot.
For Clyde, who couldn’t wait!
Prologue
Newfoundland is a large island in the northwest Atlantic Ocean, off the east coast of Canada. During the late nineteenth century, the island was a Dominion of the British Empire (together with Canada, New Zealand, the Irish Free State, and Australia). Until it joined Canada as a province in 1949, it was self-governed and had its own currency and coinage, defence, anthem, postal service, and banking system.
In 1890, the population of the capital city of St. John’s was approximately 25,000, but the island’s huge coastline (9,600 kilometres) had an additional 50,000 inhabitants attracted by the produ
ctive cod fishery. These livyers were scattered throughout hundreds of tiny communities in coves and bays around the coast. Typical communities had between forty and 200 residents—by design, the numbers could sustain a reasonable inshore trap fishery.
Labrador, the continental part of Newfoundland, had an additional 7,886 kilometres of coastline and a settled population between 1,200 and 1,300. The Innu and Inuit peoples migrated seasonally between the coast and inland. They were referenced as Eskimow, Esquimeaux, Esquimoe, or Eskimo in journals and newspapers of that period.
Several year-round Moravian Missions were established to educate indigenous peoples in their native language. They were located in Nain, Hopedale, Hebron, Zoar, Ramah, Makkovik, and Killinek. The posts also attracted “white” settlers.
The population and marine traffic in Labrador dramatically increased between early spring and late fall when the coast was seasonally settled by “green fishermen” taking part in the Labrador fishery. “Floater fishermen” also fished the grounds. However, they returned to the island of Newfoundland to process their catch.
In the spring, merchants traded provisions for furs trapped over the winter. During the fishing season, the merchants’ ships collected dried salt cod, salmon, and fish oil in exchange for provisions. In Labrador, most of the commerce and trading was conducted between the fishermen and the Hudson’s Bay Company’s ships out of Montreal, or with the Moravian Missions, who bartered with Europe. On the island, cod was shipped to Britain, Canada, and the United States through Boston and New York.
After first snow, coastal settlements in Labrador were isolated and cut off until spring thaw. Residents survived on salt cod, farm animals, merchant provisions coming from Europe through the Moravian Missions (tea, flour, molasses, beans, etc.), as well as caribou, seals, and seabirds hunted during the winter and early spring.
Travel amongst settlements was rare. However, sleds led by dog teams were the most popular means of transportation during the long, harsh winters.
The Moravian missionaries tried to convert the Innu and Inuit to Christianity and attracted indigenous encampments near their posts during the winter. The indigenous were vulnerable to diseases introduced by European travellers who came to the Missions and by the enterprises involving those who were prosecuting the fishery.
Civil law was rarely practised, except for the most heinous of crimes. Those brought before the courts would generally be tried at Twillingate, Harbour Grace, St. John’s, or, on rare occasions, in Labrador. Executives at the Moravian Missions would sometimes act as justices for lesser crimes.
1
Somewhere near Nain, Labrador, 1880s
Hesitantly and with great care, she set the plate of hot stew on the old wooden table. His dark eyes leered at the spot where her outstretched arm had brushed his shoulder. She held her breath and slunk away. He looked to his supper. His arms tensed, and his knuckles whitened on the fork and knife he held upright on each side of the chipped dish.
“Why is the caribou burnt?” he said too quietly, his teeth gritted and jaw strained. “Why weren’t you paying attention?”
Her body flexed to run, but the air seemed to solidify around her and his stare held her fast. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you liked it browned.”
“Browned, yes. But not burnt!” he roared. With deliberation and drawn-out movements, he laid the utensils down one by one as he stared at her. His muscular arms bulged and pulsed as he gripped the edge of the table.
Terror was a swollen river cresting upon her. “I’ll take it back,” she said, almost as if the words could save her. She could change the meat in the black iron pot with other pieces that were not as brown. That should satisfy him.
With one swoop of his big arm and the speed of a pouncing lynx, he cleared off the table, pushed back the chair, and landed a blow across her face that whipped her head back and split her lip. She didn’t see it coming to brace herself. She lost her footing, stumbled backward, and tripped over the second chair in the small two-roomed sod hut. Its leg twisted and broke under her, and she crumpled, tangled in the wood, against the unforgiving earthen wall.
Before she could recover, he grabbed a fistful of her dark hair and pulled her upright in front of him. She clutched the strands to relieve the pain in her scalp while using her arms, bent around her face, to protect herself. He struck her about the head twice more with his free hand before landing an elbow to her midsection, all the while cursing her stupidity and uselessness. He released her and she doubled over in pain, unable to catch her breath.
She scrambled away from him but became trapped against the dirt-packed wall near the shoddy stone fireplace. In the dimness of the room, she tried to make herself as small as possible under the protection of her arms and legs as he rained down his blows. Then he seized her hair once more and dragged her from the ramshackle shelter she knew as home.
Stumps, low bushes, and loose rocks on the rugged path tore at her bare heels, ankles, and calves as he stomped along. As much as she tried, she could neither stand nor right herself. He was going too fast. She clutched her hair to lessen the strain and struck out at him with her other fist. Her arm couldn’t reach far enough to land a blow. She screamed in agony as she tried to keep up, but there was no reprieve. It only angered him more.
She was dragged up across the headland to the edge of the cliff, where he stood her on the precipice of death once again. She thought, It must be two hundred feet down to the rocks. But after almost a year, this view didn’t intimidate her. She’d become accustomed to it. She thought back to how terrifying it had been the first time he’d hauled her to this bluff. That time she’d been sure he was going to fling her over. She’d flailed and screamed and begged and cried and said she was sorry, though for what she did not know. When he was sure she was sufficiently frightened, he took her back to the sod hut. He always took her back. He carried on with whatever he was doing, as if nothing had happened, reassured she was discontented in his cruel entrapment.
She didn’t quite know how to deal with the beatings. Sometimes she would fight back, and sometimes she would try to hide. There were times she held her tongue to the point she believed she’d forgotten how to speak. She silently spewed her hatred for him behind his back, and when she was alone, she would tell the trees or the grass or the birds how much she hated him. When she’d tried to leave, she’d gotten too cold, or too wet, or too hungry. The wilderness, her solitary friend, continuously betrayed her. She’d come to believe she deserved what he doled out.
He reminded her often that she should be grateful he was a good provider. But when he went fishing or hunting, she prayed he would not come home. She’d be left alone. She didn’t know if that would be harder, if women knew how to survive, but there were times she thought it couldn’t be as hard as things were now.
Ezra, the man born to a mean white fur trader and an Esquimeaux woman, had a reputation like that of his father. He had no care for the law nor his wife. His mother had been brutalized by his father, who ran off after she had disappeared. Ezra scrounged around from family to family for food and lodging in the settlement on the outskirts of the Moravian Mission in Nain. By the time he was thirteen years old, he was all but banished because of the cruelty he showed to both the children and animals in the village. He was given food when he was hungry but had learned to depend on his wits and hunting skills to make him an independent, anchorless sort with regard for nobody. His brutality was remarkable, and most people steered clear of the mean man he’d become. But unlike them, she didn’t have a say in steering clear.
In flights of fancy, she wondered if there was something different. For as long as she had memories, she was hiding or running away, all the while listening to the screams and pleadings. She understood that things were the same for her mother. She supposed it must be like that for all women. If it weren’t, then somebody would undoubtedly have
helped her mother or would help her. But no one would interfere with a man’s business.
She often blamed herself for her mother’s death. She’d stood up to her father. She’d stood up to him for her, so he wouldn’t trade her at fifteen years of age for a quintal of fish and a bottle of cheap stilled whiskey. People were afraid of him, too. No one stopped her father. A man’s business.
And now, because she was Ezra’s wife, that same business was handed out to her.
The last time she went to the general store, she had heard the chatter inside, but when she entered, a hush fell over the entire place. Mr. Making motioned to her from behind the counter, and the others shuffled aside to let her pass. No matter who or how many were waiting to be served, or for what reason they were in the store, there was whispering and a knowing. No one wanted to be responsible for what would happen if she were delayed. A servant of hopelessness, she would have welcomed a delay, a kind word, or a smile. The beatings happened anyway, but her isolation would have been lessened and her desolate spirit lifted.
Now here she stood at the cliff, waiting to be dragged back to the house once he saw she was terrorized enough and remorseful enough for her failings as a wife. Her future was in his grasp, always in his harsh grasp. Just push me, she thought.
A fish hawk screamed from the overcast sky, its cry foretelling what was to come. Her throbbing face mellowed. Her breathing calmed. The sting from the cuts, scrapes, and scratches about her legs and feet eased. The soothing breeze tugged at the long black tresses ensnared in the drying blood on her temple and lips. The grass where she stood seemed to paint itself several shades greener and the water below several shades bluer. She looked down at the rocks and silently pondered the remnants of her miserable life, which smeared clouded pictures across her mind. Not one recollection was a good one. Not one made her smile.
The Liars Page 1