That Forgetful Shore

by Trudy Morgan-Cole

  “It’s a hard thing, loving anyone,” Trif says. “It nearly always ends up hurting, but I don’t say you’d want to miss out on it. Better to have loved and lost, like your man Tennyson said.”

  When Trif is not in the garden she works in the house, baking and scrubbing and sewing. She dresses from top to toe in clothes she makes herself and sews as much as she can for the rest of the family, again to save on money and credit. While Kit stays there they eat fish at least once every day, but Trif varies the meals when she can, once making a stew out of moose she bottled the previous fall.

  Kit has forgotten – or never really known, perhaps – just how hard this life is, how close to the bone, how dependent on the earth and the sea and human toil. By cutting the Point out of her life for so many years she managed to forget how harsh it was, but also how beautiful. She was homesick for the place when she first left; a part of her still belongs here as it does nowhere else.

  Among the visits Kit makes to old friends, she spends an evening at the home of her cousin Ted Parsons, visiting his wife Eliza in what is doubtless the most comfortable house in the community. Ted, who is down on the Labrador, owns not only the shop and schooners the Parsons family always owned, but also the new sawmill. “We got to try other things,” Eliza tells Kit, “make money off of something besides fish. There’s no future in fish alone.”

  Looking around at Eliza’s simple furniture Kit sees that while this is luxury compared to Trif’s house or the homes of most fishermen, it is still spartan compared to homes she visits in St. John’s. She remembers the old resentment the fishermen feel for the local merchant, making his fortune off their bent backs. But she also knows that the plummeting prices of fish hurt the merchants too, that men like her cousin face hard times.

  “Have you been up to visit the school?” Eliza asks. “It’s come a long ways since we were in it. Mr. Bishop did a lot for that place in his time.”

  “Triffie took me up to see it,” Kit says. She doesn’t attempt to convey to Eliza, whom she barely knows, the heart-clutch of mingled fear and nostalgia she felt when Trif unlocked the door and let her in to the empty classroom. Nor does she say anything about what Joe Bishop, who retired last year after nearly forty years of service, has or hasn’t done for the young people of the Point.

  But Eliza won’t let the subject go. “I saw him in church this Sunday – it’s a shame you weren’t there,” she says. “Plenty of people would have liked to see you. Perhaps you’ll get out next week? Anyway, when Mr. Bishop heard you were visiting Triffie, he said you should come by to see him. He’s very crippled up with his arthritis and I think his heart is weak. He’s not old – not sixty yet – but he’s worked himself into the ground for that school, he has. And he’d love to see you.”

  Kit mentions the invitation to Triffie that night. “Yes, he said the same to me in church Sunday,” Trif says. She doesn’t turn around from peeling potatoes.

  “You never told me.”

  “Truth be told, I didn’t think you’d want to see him. After everything.”

  “Do you think I should?”

  Trif pauses in her work, but still doesn’t look at Kit. “Hard to say, girl. There’s something to be said for making things right, but there’s a good bit to be said for leaving sleeping dogs lie, too.”

  “Some help you are,” Kit says, but she knows Triffie is right. There are times no-one else can tell you what’s right or wrong.

  She goes up the next day to see him. There are only four days left to her visit, and she doesn’t want Joe Bishop hanging over them. A stout middle-aged housekeeper – a Dawe, by the look of her, though Kit can’t say offhand which one – lets her in and announces, “Mr. Bishop, that’s Mrs. Porter to see you.” Apparently she has no trouble placing Kit.

  Eliza is right – he looks old. A few wisps of gray hair cling to a bald pink scalp; the hands gripping the arms of his chair are gnarled with arthritis. He looks nothing like the commanding figure at the front of the classroom; she can hardly even imagine his presence next to her, both sinister and attractive, one arm sliding around her while her head bent over the book close to his.

  “Mr. Bishop,” she says.

  “Mrs. Porter – Kit Saunders, I feel inclined to say.” Even his voice is thinner, though there’s something there of his old timbre. “Of all my old students, none has had as impressive a career as you have.”

  “Well – it’s kind of you to say so, I’m sure.”

  “Not kind – true. An Oxford degree? A professor at Memorial College? Hardly accomplishments to be sniffed at.”

  “No – no, they aren’t. I have worked very hard for everything I’ve achieved.”

  He waves a hand towards a chair, high and straightbacked. He’s received her in the parlour, the same rarely used room that most families on the Point would have ushered him into when he came to visit. The parlour was for the minister and the schoolteacher; the kitchen was good enough for everyone else. “I shouldn’t keep you – standing.” His breath catches a little. “Do, please, sit down.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Bishop. I won’t be staying long – I’d rather stand.”

  For the first time he looks at her with something other than a beatific smile, as if taking her measure. Whatever he was hoping for out of this visit, it’s not meeting his expectations.

  “I wish you would. Sit down,” he says, his thin voice high and querulous.

  Kit stays on her feet, her hands clasped behind her. It strikes her that her pose is not unlike the one she would take for giving a recitation in the schoolroom, in days of old.

  The conversation staggers and almost falls, but the old man makes an effort to pick it up, asking Kit about the college and her work there. Reflecting that the man did give her the best possible teaching for his place and time, despite the harm he did, Kit tries to be gracious.

  But before much time has passed he brings the conversation back to the little schoolroom in Missing Point. “You’ve gone on to do great things, Mrs. Porter,” he says. “Studying at Oxford, teaching at college. I’ve never done anything very great in my life – just been a simple outport teacher. But I like to think my greatest accomplishment was planting seeds – yes, making it possible for young people like yourself to go farther and do more.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kit says dutifully. “As Newton said, sir, we stand on the shoulders of giants.”

  He likes that, smiles and straightens his own shoulders. He likes thinking of himself as a giant. “Yes, I look at a woman like you and think, there is my greatest accomplishment, there is my legacy – to know that I made all this possible, and that the leaders of today are grateful to the teachers of yesterday, to those of us who placed their feet on the path of success.”

  The man sounds like he’s writing a book – or making a commencement address. Slowly it dawns on Kit what he wants. He’s waiting for her to thank him.

  The disparity between what he wants and what she wants hits her like a fist below the ribs, and without thinking she lets out a short, sharp laugh.

  “You find it funny? That you would thank an old teacher for helping you along the way?”

  “No, sir … that is –” Kit collects her thoughts. This man is old, possibly dying; should she be kind? Perhaps Kit should say the words he needs to hear and go away. Let him rest in peace.

  “Of course, sir, like any student I’m grateful for having had good teachers. But you might perhaps appreciate why it’s difficult for me to thank you.”

  His eyes are mild and blank. Perhaps his memory is gone – perhaps he really doesn’t know what she means. Certainly he sounds innocent as he says, “Why would that be, Mrs. Porter? Do you think you could have gotten so far in life on your own, without my help?”

  The insolence of his frail voice snaps the fire inside her. “I could have done quite well, sir, without your inappropriate advances. As, I’m sure, could a number of other young ladies.”

  His bushy white brows draw together and hi
s eyes narrow. “Are you raking up old scandals, Mrs. Porter? You’re as bad as your friend Trif Russell, holding a man’s youthful mistakes against him. Have you no sense of proportion? Would you hold a grudge all these years – when the mistake was so small in the light of all I did for you, for all you girls?”

  “Really? What about girls who gave up on schooling when they could have had more, because they didn’t want to sit with you in the classroom after hours and have you pawing all over them? Or girls like me, who didn’t even know it was wrong, didn’t know what was wrong with them at all till they were grown up?”

  The picture of Katie Grace’s face, round and sincere, rises before her, and her stomach churns. She’s never dared to ask Trif what happened in later years, whether Katie was safe from Joe Bishop. “Do you know what’s ironic, Mr. Bishop? I came here today because you wanted to see me – because I thought you wanted to apologize, to make your peace. I didn’t begrudge you that. I would have forgiven you, if you’d asked it. But to come here and find that you expect to be thanked, that you were waiting for me to go down on my knees and say what a blessing you were to me – that’s unthinkable.”

  “Is it? Is it? There are plenty of women not as proud as you or your friend Mrs. Russell, plenty who aren’t vengeful, who have fond memories – they’ve told me, they’ve thanked me. They are better women than you are, Mrs. Porter – you were too proud as a girl in the schoolroom and you’re still too proud today!”

  He lifts his stick, shakes it in her direction as if warding off a dog. Kit takes it as a cue to go. “I’ll take my leave of you, Mr. Bishop. If there are so many students who are ready to forget what you did and thank you for your kindness, you’ll have to be content with their gratitude. You won’t need mine.”

  She walks out of the parlour, past the kitchen where the housekeeper is trying to pretend she’s not eavesdropping, and out the front door. Anger fuels her steps as she walks down the Neck Road and takes the turn down to the south side of the Point.

  She imagines she’ll tell Trif about the visit right away, but she arrives back at the Russell house to find supper on the table, and she’s caught up in the whirl of family activity till the dishes are done, Jacob John and the boys go to Fred Mercer’s shed to mend nets and visit, and Katie Grace is at Lydia Snow’s house for the evening. Trif brings her chair and her bag of mending out onto the front bridge, since it’s a warm night, and Kit comes with her, sitting beside her as they watch the sunset paint the waters of the bay a hundred different colours.

  “Our Bill was talking about college again today – I think he’s really giving it some thought,” Triffie says. “I’d be some glad if he never had to go down in a mine again.”

  “I hope he comes to Memorial,” Kit says. “There’s something in him that’s too bright to be kept below ground – I think he could do well if he got a bit more education, and I mean it about him coming to board with me.”

  “You’re some good to offer, and you might think I’d be too proud to accept so much help.” Trif finishes the torn shirt she’s mended and picks up a pair of young David’s pants with the backside split out of them. “My eyes aren’t good enough to be doing this kind of work in the dim light anymore,” she says, but does it anyway. “I never thought I’d take handouts from anyone, even from you – least of all from you – but it’s different when it’s for your children. I’d do anything to see them better themselves. I don’t know what David is likely to want yet, but he’ll be staying in school till he gets his Grade Eleven, s’posing we have to go on the dole to keep him there.”

  “You won’t have to do that,” Kit says. “I know – I understand why it’s hard for you to take handouts, Trif. But look at me! I’m not rich, but I’m comfortable – I’ve worked for years for decent wages and never had a soul to spend money on but myself. And I haven’t even got anyone to leave it to! You’re the closest I’ve got to family, and if I can’t use what bit of money I’ve got saved to help Katie and Bill and David, what’s the good of money at all?”

  Trif nods. “Like I said, I’m not too proud to accept help if it’s for the children.”

  “What about for yourself? I know you won’t take money, but – what if you came in to visit me in town the odd time, once or twice in a year, times when you weren’t too busy at home? I’d pay for you to come in – it’d be a treat for me to have the company. Maybe someday we could even take a little trip together.” She thinks of all the things she could do for Triffie with her modest savings, things like a trip to Boston or Montreal, that would be small for Kit but life-changing for Triffie.

  She expects refusal, but Trif just shrugs. “I don’t know, Kit. It’s hard, with times like they are, to see further ahead than the next bill to be paid. But I wouldn’t say no to a change of scenery now and then, that’s the truth.”

  The sunset colours have faded and the sky is twilit now, dark enough that Trif has to put aside the mending and pick up her knitting, which she does so automatically that she never looks down at her fingers. The click of her needles makes a counterpoint to the rush of the waves on the beach, that same sound that provided the background to a hundred late-night talks they had shared in their youth.

  “So how was it – going to see old Joe Bishop?” Trif finally asks, and Kit tells her, as simply as she can.

  “He said something about you – twice,” Kit remembers as she finishes her account of the afternoon’s brief visit. “Said I was as bad as you, holding a man’s old mistakes against him. So – you must have said something to him, after all.”

  “Indeed and I did, once Katie got to an age where I was worried about her.” Trif pauses, though the knitting needles continue their rhythmic clicking. “You were right to tell me, Kit, for all it made me mad. Something had to be done, and I did it. It’s a long story, but – well, sure, I wrote it all down, it’s best if I show you –”

  They are interrupted, just then, by Katie Grace coming home. She perches on the railing for a few minutes to talk and then goes inside, and just behind her comes Jacob John.

  “That’s himself now, back from mending nets and jawing with the men,” Triffie says, laying down her work. “I wonder the boys aren’t with him – off with them Mercer boys, no doubt.” She goes into the house; she doesn’t need to say that she’s going to put the kettle on. Kit knows the pattern by now, after nearly two weeks in their house. Whenever Jacob John comes in, whatever time it is, Triffie puts the kettle on and makes him a cup of tea.

  He moves slowly up the lane, so that Trif is back out and sat down in her chair, waiting for the kettle to boil, by the time Jacob John climbs the steps.

  He nods to Kit; he’s been warmly polite to her ever since she arrived, like you would be to any old acquaintance. But his eyes move at once to Triffie as he says, “Bill and David are down on the Long Beach with Fred’s boys and a few other young ones – they got a fire built down there. I told Bill to keep an eye on David and make sure they was both home by ten.”

  Sure enough, when they stop talking to listen Kit can hear the boyish laughter and shouts drifting up from the beach, and see the flicker of their fire.

  “They shouldn’t be at that foolishness – they both got to be up early in the morning. And I don’t trust Fred’s young fellows, nor Char’s neither – young Bob drinks, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he got the younger ones into it too now.”

  “Stop worrying, missus. Young fellas got to have a bit of badness in them, and Bob’s like all the Mercers – full of foolishness, but he won’t do nothing too stunned.” Trif rolls her eyes and Jacob John, who’s standing behind her and can’t have seen her face, must be able to read her expression without seeing it, for he says, “Sure you’re not worried about our boys getting into no trouble down there. If there’s any foolishness going on our Bill won’t stand for that. He’s as likely to have ’em all down on their knees havin’ a prayer meeting as anything.”

  “Proper thing,” Trif says. “Be glad I raised him right.
”

  “Anyway, if they’re not back up here by ten thirty I’ll go down to the beach and haul ’em up myself,” Jacob John promises.

  “Yes now, I ’lows you’ll still be awake at half-past ten. You’ll be snoring fit to raise the rafters by ten. Come inside now, that kettle must be boiled, and it’s getting chilly out here.”

  Trif laughs as she gets up to go into the kitchen, and sort of bumps Jacob John as she walks past him, a movement both careless and intimate. He laughs too, follows her into the kitchen. Kit goes in after them, and there’s something in that shared gesture and that unromantic touch that tightens Kit’s throat.

  She pauses for a moment on the bridge, hearing their voices fade into the lighted warmth of the house. The rise and fall of voices blurs past the point where she can pick out the words; she hears only the tones of people who have talked to each other for so long they sound like people in church, singing hymn tunes they have known all their lives.

  She goes inside, joins them for their cup of tea. Jacob John says goodnight and goes up to bed. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” Trif says, as she has said every night since Kit has been here. The two women sit together at the table, finishing their tea.

  “What did you mean – you wrote it all down?” Kit says. “About Joe Bishop?”

  “I got something to give you. I’ve been thinking ever since you came about whether I should give it to you or not, but they were meant for you – at first they were, anyway – and I want you to have them.”

  Trif crosses the room and goes upstairs. She comes back with a biscuit tin, a lovely red one with a hinged lid and a picture of Buckingham Palace on the cover. She lays it down in front of Kit, who opens it to find letters – three or four dozen, at least. Every one in an envelope with Mrs. Katherine Porter written on it, but never an address or stamp.

  “I went on writing to you, ”Trif says, sitting back down, folding her hands in front of her. “Not right away – but a few years after. When I had – things to say, that I couldn’t imagine telling anyone else. The whole story is in there about Mr. Bishop, and a lot of other things besides. I s’pose I was really writing to myself, but I couldn’t do that – like a diary or anything. It only made sense if I put your name on it.”