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Mary impatiently poked stray pieces of hair into the tangled, messy bun at the top of her head. Tall for a woman, at five foot eight, with her long red curly hair and too-pale skin, she didn’t fancy herself a handsome woman. She was lean from all the hard work, not only in the cannery, but from chores that she did alone—toting water, tending gardens, milking the cow, feeding the hens, collecting the eggs, filling the woodbox, and keeping the house in good repair.
Her legs began to tire as she kept walking. Her burning muscles were a momentary distraction from the heaviness in her heart.
Climbing the fence from the upper meadow, she paused for a moment to gaze longingly at the women on the wharf. Wives pitched in to help their husbands prepare for a week at sea, seeing them again for only a few days between trips. Some days she longed to be part of this busy scene, or part of something. Loneliness swelled in her heart—she felt somehow insignificant, like she didn’t make a difference. From a long-formed habit, she quickly jumped to the ground. She passed the woodshed and picked her way along the muddied path and on into the two-storey saltbox house.
Her house. She still couldn’t believe it was her house. The month prior, with her brother’s help, she had applied a coat of lime to the clapboards. She noticed the white was already fading. It would have to do for the summer because it wasn’t a job that could be repeated more than once a year—and she hoped to get two out of it, if possible. Brian was busy with his own livelihood and didn’t need to be worrying after her.
Heat, and the familiar smell from the wood-burning, cast-iron stove, was comforting. She’d been gone longer than she meant, and the fire would be low. The aroma of the beef stew simmering in the black iron pot on the back of the stove wafted across her nostrils, and she was suddenly ravenous. She was grateful to her brother for providing fresh beef from a slaughtered cow. Mary was glad she had prepared the meal before leaving. She had used her own potatoes, carrot, turnip, and parsnip to complete the meal.
The produce in the cellar had lasted the winter—mostly the fruits of her labour. By September the year before, she had a prosperous harvest thanks to her keen attention. Her vegetables had gone in the ground a few months after Da and Mom passed, partly to work away the hurt that came from missing them. Already this spring she had set beds of blues and russets in the meadow by the river and was looking forward to what the fall dig would bring.
She used the lifter on the oven door to raise the damper and stoke the fire before filling the stove from the woodbox. Silently she cursed herself for not returning sooner to bring in firewood. Only traces of daylight remained on the sky, so it would have to wait. A trip in the dark to the woodshed behind the house was not something she relished. There was no hurry. She would leave it and fill the woodbox in the morning.
Her hunger took over. Taking care, she reached for a plate from the small wooden cupboard Da had built above the dark maple sideboard. Her grandparents had brought the sideboard, with matching table and chairs, from Ireland. Being the youngest boy, Da had received them as a wedding gift. Although the sideboard remained, the big maple table, along with the eight chairs, had been moved to her brother’s house. The void was filled by a narrow wooden table Da had in the barn and two sturdy chairs that she had brought down from the upstairs bedrooms. She had painted the furniture a glossy chocolate brown, and now the pieces looked good as new.
Her mother’s only luxury was a set of antique blue and white patterned Blue Willow dishes used for special occasions. They had come from her maternal grandparents as a wedding gift for her mother and father. With her parents gone, Mary didn’t see the sense in saving the dishes for something special, and she used them every day to keep her mother’s memory close.
The rhyme her mother recited when she washed and stored the plates after the “special” meals evaded Mary—having something to do with boys on the bridge, boats in the bay, and birds flying away. In a way, she felt disloyal to her mother for not remembering something that meant so much to her. Mary strained fruitlessly to bring it back from the recesses of her mind.
Mary recalled the day the boat brought the mail with the parcel from Eaton’s containing the covered butter dish, the sugar bowl, and the milk jug to complete the set. The look of pride and happiness was evident in her mother’s face, to have something so precious. Mary found it frustrating to have forgotten the rhyme that completed the memory.
Using a ladle to scoop some of the tender pieces of beef and vegetables onto the plate, she smiled as gravy spread over the “boys on the bridge” and she pictured her mother. The meal wasn’t hot, but she made quick work of it.
Mary was accustomed to the silence of the house. In the near darkness, she took a long sprig of wood from the bottom of the woodbox, lifted the damper, and stuck the end into the flames. As the tip caught, she removed the glass chimney from the lamp and placed the fire on the wick. The wick sputtered. Mary turned the dial down until the long, narrow top was fully consumed. She replaced the chimney and turned the dial once more, raising the wick and spreading light across the kitchen. She replaced the damper after discarding the burning piece of wood back in the stove.
Lamps on the wall were rarely lit. She never had much company any time, let alone in the evening. The lamp oil would be needed when the winter nights returned—and she tried not to be wasteful.
Mary surveyed the small kitchen that had served as her entire living space when the weather turned cold sometime back in November. When the snow came, it was a waste to try and keep the four upstairs bedrooms heated. She believed she had made the right decision to move downstairs. Although she had a good supply of wood, heating the entire house was not sensible. Once the storm windows were on, the house was a bit tighter, but the upstairs had not been needed for her first winter alone.
The house was laid out similar to most of the modest two-storey homes in John’s Pond. The kitchen was the focal point. Hers had three doors: the one she had just come in through from the porch, which was on the same wall as the wooden vertical slider window overlooking the garden and lane; a second, behind the stove, leading to the pantry; and a third opening onto the bottom of the stairs. Farther on past the stairs, and not visible from the kitchen was the front room, and at the foot of the stairs was a tiny porch with an entry. The pantry also had an exit to the back meadows, but Mary kept its winter storm door on and shut all year since it was rarely, if ever, used.
Her paternal grandmother and grandfather were both waked in the front room. As was the tradition in most houses, the front room was used only when somebody died. Diphtheria had kept her mother and father from getting the same respect. Mary sighed as she thought of how her life had changed in a little more than a year.
A worn brown leathered daybed stretched out under the window. Out of necessity, Mary had slept on that bench all winter. Moving it out of the draft, she piled on some of her mother’s homemade quilts and was warm enough during the coldest months without having to heat an entire house. With the bigger table gone, there was lots of room to move the daybed around and put the table and chairs under the window.
Various sizes and shapes of teapots, cups and saucers, and hens and roosters covered the faded light-purple wallpaper. The edges had mostly held and would last for another few years. She could make a flour and water paste to re-stick the seams that had come loose around the warmer on the stove and the area near the woodbox. The light mossy green floor canvas was slightly worn around the door and the stove but had been installed only a couple of years ago.
“A few spark holes and scuff marks don’t matter much when you only have yourself for company, eh Mary girl?” Mary spoke aloud to herself and the house. She could put a wax shine on it any time she wanted—she just didn’t have the inclination to do that.
Steam rose around her from the hot water reservoir at the end of the stove when she dipped water for the dishes into the white enamel pan on the oven door.
Retrieving some cold water from the aluminium drinking bucket laid on the low bench behind the porch door, she made a mental note to go to the wellhouse in the morning—both the tank and the bucket were low.
Luckily, she lived near the river and didn’t have to track to Ansalem’s Well near the church like most of the folks around the pond. With a task-driven life, the short distance to Da’s well was welcome on some days. Although the trips were few and far between, when she felt like having a conversation, she’d go to the community well and chat with neighbours. Though they were friendly and inviting, Mary wasn’t always up for the company.
She still remembered the time Da had started the wellhouse—a tiny shed with a hole in the floor to folks who didn’t know the difference. But to Mary it was her and Da’s project and time spent together—she was ten years old. They built the little house on the narrowest part of the river and dammed it off to form a pool. Mary helped catch and place the trout, considered a symbol of good luck, and every flourishing well had one. The trout was big now, and Mary said hello every time she went for a bucket of water. Although knowing it was foolish, she hated to give up on a tradition that kept Da close in her heart.
After using the last remaining chip of soap to wash her dishes, Mary lovingly wiped the plate and placed it back in the cupboard. She would have to make more soap for the dishes and laundry or maybe splurge on a cake of Sunlight from the store, even though she had done that the last time. Mary needed to get herself straightened up for survival. If she continued to stay here alone, she had to be resourceful instead of wasteful.
As she closed the kitchen curtains, she glanced out the window and noticed that the moon was full and high. Dusk, yet there was enough light to safely walk to the small general store down the lane. The store also served as a post office, boarding house, and an impromptu meeting place for small gatherings. Strangely craving company and a nice-smelling bar of soap for the washstand upstairs, Mary impulsively pulled on her woollen coat, dimmed the lamp, and made her way down the path toward the lights of the store.
Faint sounds of Meg and Richard squabbling caused Mary to smile as she neared the green two-storey building. Those two fought whenever they met up, and it seemed like that was pretty often, according to town talk. She could hear Meg telling the young man his arms were as big as tree trunks and to give her room to get around the counter. The bell over the door tinkled as Mary entered, and she caught a glimpse of Richard moving impatiently out of Meg’s way.
Mrs. Ange Dalton, the storekeeper, greeted her from behind the counter. She was an older lady with long grey hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head. Her wrinkled face lit up when she smiled, causing the crinkle lines around her eyes to deepen—the sign of a woman who had smiled most of her life—and she retained some of the coltish energy and grace of her youth. Her children had gone to St. John’s for an education and were now in many parts of the world, and Mrs. Ange liked to talk about them to anyone who would listen.
After her husband died, she kept the store, liking the companionship of customers and renting bedrooms in the old rambling house for a small sum when people came for work at the cannery. She was no pushover, but she kept the life of many in the community by providing credit without expecting payment when the summer fishery wasn’t so good or was late starting. People in turn were appreciative of this and kept their business with the local store.
“Hi, Mary. How are you this evening?”
“Fine, Mrs. Ange, just fine. Thanks for asking.”
“It’s a great evening for the boys getting ready for fishing. There was lots of activity on the wharf.”
“Yes, I saw the crowds from the hill,” Mary said. “Hope they’ll have fair weather for their trip.”
“Mr. Vince says they will because his joints ain’t paining, and he’s never wrong.”
Mary smiled. Fishermen took stock in Mr. Vince Doran’s predictions—at least she always heard them to be unfailing.
As she spoke, Mrs. Ange grabbed a piece of thick white fatback pork from a large pickle barrel at the end of the counter. Placing the piece of meat on the scales, she added and removed different weights until the scale showed even. Pulling some brown paper off the huge roll at the end of the counter, she wrapped it over the pork and carefully tied the bundle with white line from a spool on a nail above her head. She had the precision and speed of someone who had done the task for years.
Handing the brown paper package to Richard, they exchanged a few coins. Richard tipped his cap and nodded to Mary. He, too, wore the tell-tale crop of red hair: a trait of the Linehan and Dalton Irish roots so prevalent in the community.
“Good night, Mary Ro. Mrs. Ange. Miss Dalton,” he said, raising his voice on the last part while glancing once more toward the back of the store. Mary could hear Meg make a huffing sound as Richard pulled open the door; the bell tinkled, and she felt the draft on her legs as he closed the door behind him.
Mary smiled at Mrs. Ange, who smirked, nodding toward the corner where Meg was pretending to look at drinking glasses on the shelf. Romance in a small town was as simple as, and no more than, that.
“Mrs. Ange, I’m hoping I can buy a bar of nice soap. I’m almost out and my hair needs washing. Oh, and a cake of Sunlight for the dishes and the washtub.”
Mrs. Ange turned and entered the storeroom behind her. Mary peeped around the corner and called a hello to Meg.
“Hi, Mary Ro. It’s a beautiful night.”
Mary noticed the girl seemed to be afraid of her. But “afraid” wasn’t the right word. She shied away from Mary and didn’t look her in the eye. Meg blushed and sputtered over her words whenever Mary tried to be courteous.
“Yes it is,” Mary replied, before turning back to Mrs. Ange, who had returned with a red bar of soap wrapped in a piece of light tan-coloured cheesecloth.
The storekeeper grabbed a bright yellow package with bold blue letters spelling sunlight from a shelf under the counter. She placed both soaps in a small brown paper bag and handed the bag to Mary. Mary instinctively brought the paper to her nose, catching the light scent of roses mixed with lemons as she inhaled.
As she reached into her pocket for two pennies, Mrs. Ange held up her hand. “Don’t worry about that, my child. I’ll put it on your bill. You can settle up at the end of the month when your parcel arrives.”
Grateful, but with nowhere else to spend her money, she tried to pay Mrs. Ange. The shrewd storekeeper wouldn’t hear of it. She refused the cash, even though Mary protested that she wasn’t a charity case. Mrs. Ange was stubborn and held up her hands. So Mary thanked her, bid them both a good evening, and headed out along the path toward home. Her fingertips absently caressed the few coins in her pocket.
The night was quiet despite the earlier bustle on the wharf. Most fishermen were in bed since they would be pushing out with the high tide at around four the next morning.
Mary slowly strolled as she gazed at the beautiful display of sparkling lights on the black velvet tapestry above. She knew the stars and the patterns—Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion, and others—from one of the books her father had brought from St. John’s a few years before. Suddenly her eyes were drawn to a bright ball of light with a shimmering tail as it streaked across the sky and disappeared beyond the horizon. Mary recalled having read somewhere that a shooting star meant you could make a wish and it would come true.
She mulled it over for a few moments. The hidden place that only showed itself in her dreams overpowered the practical part of her that didn’t want to believe in such nonsense. She had nothing to lose, and she couldn’t waste a wish—just in case what she remembered was true. She stopped abruptly, squeezed her eyes tight, and wished for a fantastical, magical, life-changing experience that would make her more than Mary Ro. Opening her eyes, she smiled into the darkness. Then the practical side of Mary showed itself, and she chided herself for being silly in hoping and be
lieving such foolishness.
She was bound by the sea, the ridge, and the treeline in John’s Pond. Nothing fantastical or magical ever happened here. Wishes didn’t come true. The only life-changing things in John’s Pond happened to the younger girls and men who got married and had children, or, she supposed, to the ones who were lucky enough to escape through work or love and disappeared from the place altogether, as if gone through the void. It was too late for her. This place held her prisoner as surely as the stars taunted her from the heavens.
Absurd, of course, yet deep within her core she dreamed of being someone more than Mary Ro, though she wasn’t quite sure what that even meant. She stamped her foot and nodded her head as if to reiterate to her practical side that she had the right to make a wish, however childish it seemed.
Mary carefully picked her way along the gravelled track, despite having trod the same path seemingly a million times. If she tripped, she would be left to the mercy of the elements while waiting for somebody to find her. Her house was somewhat isolated. It was the last one in the lane and closest to the woods. Nobody passed her house to go anywhere; if anyone came up the path, it was with intent, and that was a rare event since her parents had died. Her brother Brian was around her house less and less since he had chores and a family with needs. That left Mary to look out for her own well-being, and that was the way she liked it.
The house was nestled in a small valley halfway between the two land routes in and out of the community. One trail led over the ridge to North Harbour, situated on the other side of the rocky point that jutted out into St. Mary’s Bay. The other led along the shore to Colinet, which was several miles farther north beyond the meadows. A few families lived near her, but most were closer to the pond.
Being Mary Ro Page 3