by Alan Doyle
And that’s when a third gold-foil-wrapped projectile met The Bottler’s head and stuck there for a moment, before sliding down his bottle nose and falling to the floor with a thud.
The Bottler quietly turned back to Paul, who was speechless, and without so much as wiping his face, he said, “Jethuth. Look a’ that now. She’th gone and wathted another perfectly good block of butter.”
It’s a wonder we ever learned to court girls properly with role models like Billy leading the way. But there were other role models in town who were a tad more upstanding.
Harry Chase was a tall, handsome man who lived in a house on the Protestant side of town even though he and his family were Catholics. He was always very well dressed in a suit or jacket, and even when he was working around the house or shovelling snow, his clothes always looked new and clean and properly tailored. He had a moustache that made him look a whole lot like Magnum, P.I.
The Chase family was the first in town to replace their old clapboard siding with the new shiny vinyl stuff that never had to be painted. They always had more than one cleaned and polished car parked in the driveway, and beyond that, as a sign of total affluence, their driveway was paved. A paved driveway. Wow. Can you imagine?
Harry and his lovely wife had six children. An older daughter and two sons had moved on to work or to go to school elsewhere by the time I was about eleven. The remaining children living at home were three daughters, all of them a few years older than me. They were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen in my life.
At mass, all eyes would turn when the Chase family entered. They would parade up the centre aisle led by Harry in his perfectly pressed suit and overcoat, if the weather required. The daughters always followed in order of age. The oldest, about seventeen, had the lightest hair and slimmest waist; she was followed by her slightly younger sister, who was the athletic type; her youngest sister, who was around thirteen, had olive skin, and her jet-black hair framed her massive, amazing dark eyes. Mrs. Chase, who followed last, looked like she could have been the oldest sister, so youthful and pretty was she. All the gals wore dresses, flowing, flowery dresses, sometimes covered by snug sweaters or blazers with fancy crests.
As I said, all eyes turned to the Chases when they entered, and some in town rolled their eyes and exchanged sniggers or whispers. But not me. I thought the red carpet covering the centre aisle of the church was a perfect runway for the Chase ladies, and I enjoyed the pageant every single Sunday.
The Chases sat five rows back from the altar, on altar left, every Sunday. Harry would stand by the pew as his daughters and his wife filed in. Then he’d slide in last, nodding at his wife as he sat. All of us boys tried to get our altar boy assignments on altar left, or pulpit side as most of the priests called it. From altar left, you had a clear view of the Chase girls. You might even catch a whiff of their shampoo as they walked past after communion. You might pick out their voices as they sang in perfect unison, with Harry an octave below. If you were really lucky, the youngest Chase daughter, who I fantasized was the most rebellious, would throw you a glance and maybe even the slightest smile.
As we were taking off our robes after mass, one of the boys swore she’d winked at him. “Bull,” we all said, though for months to follow, Father Maloney looked puzzled when we all lined up on the Chase girls’ side just before the mass began.
The Chase daughters were the first girls I clearly remember having crushes on. I may have been too young to even know what that meant. But I knew that they were as pretty as pretty could be, and the fact that they barely knew we were alive made me and my brother want them even more. But we also knew they were unattainable, and eventually we turned our sights elsewhere.
For Bernie, this meant crossing the bridge. Literally. He began looking to the Protestant part of town for ladies. My grandmother was none too pleased but would never say so directly.
Once, when we were over at my grandparents’ house for supper, Kim said to my grandmother, “Nan, Bernie’s got a new girlfriend.” If looks could kill, Bernie’s laser eyes would have cut Kim’s life short at that moment.
“Oh have ye, honey?” Nan said to Bernie. “Who’s that, now?” Nan asked while serving french fries and pretending to be only mildly interested.
“Rhonda Clarke,” Kim offered. Nan’s serving halted just enough for us to notice.
“Clark, you say? Now is that with an ‘e’ or no ‘e’?”
“Oh, with an ‘e,’ Nan. With a big ‘e,’ ” Kim said, grinning from ear to ear, knowing full well that she’d just revealed to Nan that Bernie was dating a Protestant.
“Oh merciful Jesus,” Nan said and drew her blouse tight around her neck with one hand, blessing herself with the other.
The rest of the meal was noticeably more quiet.
Protestant girls were a source of mystery and fascination to all of us b’ys. They attended school in St. John’s and knew people from all over town. They went in cars to dances at their schools and always seemed way more worldly and outgoing than the Catholic gals. You can only imagine how amazing it was for us young fellas to find out the Protestant girls were all on the pill, which definitely meant they would have sex with you just about any time at all … or so I heard Wade say on the wharf. I remember watching them on the other side of the bridge on Sunday mornings as they walked to church in their Sunday best. They always wore pretty dresses and sometimes hats.
“Who’s that one, Bern?” I’d ask as I spied.
“That’s Mandi. Way above your skill set. Wade says she goes out with a fella from town who’s gonna play pro hockey in Quebec.”
“How do you get Protestant girls to go out with you, I wonder.”
“Like anything else hard, Alan, b’y,” Bernie said. “Practise. Don’t be afraid to shag it up a few times before ya gets it right.”
And so I did. My chance to socialize with these gals came in the summer months, when the foolish religious division of the school system was lifted. We’d all play softball together and then go walk up the Long Run to the greatest swimming hole in the world, Lee’s Pool.
Lee’s Pool was across the road from the Lees’ house, the last house up the Long Run. It was really a large crevasse in the rocks behind the tubular wooden flume that carried water from the dammed pond above to the hydroelectric plant below. Lee’s Pool was out of sight from the adult world, and when the dam overflowed, it filled the crevasse with water. Some places got up to twenty feet deep. In the shallow parts, you had to be careful not to hit the rocky sides or bottom when jumping in, but it made for a pretty amazing space to clean the wharf off you, to cool you down and to hang out with all the kids in Petty Harbour, Catholic and Protestant alike.
I’d watch the older boys showing off for the girls, jumping off the highest rocks into the pool, narrowly escaping some life-altering injury just to impress the ladies. The older girls would spread towels over the rocks and lie there in their bathing suits, occasionally asking one of the fellas to sit with them or even go for a “walk” down the river.
I’d always try to keep up with the older fellas and impress some of the Protestant girls. This resulted in a few near-drowning experiences and in me splitting my head open on the sharp rocks in the pool. But in one of the greatest conquests of my life, I somehow managed to get Mandi to talk to me.
We were walking back from Lee’s Pool and the two of us were lagging behind. I was telling her how pretty she was, repeatedly and in every way I could possibly imagine, and she in turn kept saying things like, “Oh my, Little Alan Doyle. Chatting with one of the big girls. How cute.”
I wasn’t about to let her comments dissuade me, not when she was still walking right next to me, which was a huge achievement in and of itself. Eventually, I came right out with it. “You know, you should give me at least one kiss. I’ve never had a real one.”
“A kiss? You’re too young to be kissing teenage girls. You might pass out.”
“No, I won’t. And I’ve seen people do it on TV.”
<
br /> “How old are you?” she asked.
“Almost thirteen,” I said. That was about two years off the truth but close enough.
Mandi looked ahead and saw the rest of the gang was far off. She looked behind us. No one there either. Then she said the words I’ll never forget: “Come here, Little Alan Doyle. Don’t make a big deal out of this or you’ll never get another one.”
Next thing I knew, she turned me to face her and she put her wet lips on mine. I could taste her sugary lip gloss on my mouth and I could feel her press her whole body against mine. Her tongue parted my lips, the sweet taste of bubble gum coming with it. It was over as quick as it began. She pulled away from me and walked away with a sly smile I can still picture as I type. It said, “You lucky bastard.” And I was. To this day, Perry still refers to this as one of my most ambitious achievements.
My first real girlfriend came a few years later and was (Nan, I’m sorry) a Protestant girl named Stacey. I met her while playing street hockey by the fish plant. She was from Maddox Cove and she knew a lot of the Catholic fellas. She had blond hair. After much cajoling, she agreed to go to the Hockey Dance with me. The Hockey Dance was the social event of my young life and that of all the b’ys in the Goulds minor hockey league. At the end of the playing season, in early spring, there would be an awards banquet and a dance.
On this particular year, I was going to be one of the only fellas my age to have a gal accompany me to the dance. To make it even more amazing, I won top goalie in the league that year. (To be fair, there were only two of us. Greg Hawco, the other goalie, had won the coveted title the year before, and the next year he won the title back.) But awards were the last thing on my mind that night when the dance got going and Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” blasted through St. Kevin’s Parish Hall.
I asked Stacey to dance, and as soon as we were on the dance floor together, my right ear touching hers, I felt her head drift back slightly. My ear was now against her cheek. Her cheek came ever forward and I turned my head into hers and pecked her as gently as I could. A question of a kiss. The answer came hard and fast, and the next thing I knew we were full-on making out on the dance floor. This was no quick intro like Mandi had offered. This was the real deal! After the initial shock wore off, I opened my eyes and shot a glance around the room. Others were grinning or pointing at us. I was not too concerned about what they thought, though I really did enjoy the wink and hearty thumbs-up offered by Frankie Packman, who was dancing with my cousin not too far away.
After a few girlfriend-confirming kisses, the song ended. I was in a daze in the beautiful darkness. I felt for the hand next to mine and proudly led the way back to our table. Something felt odd, though. I was expecting a hero’s welcome, but instead everyone looked puzzled and amused. I got to the table and my teammates were not looking at me with envy at all. I turned around and discovered the source of everyone’s amusement. I was not holding hands with Stacey. In the fray of the bodies in the dim light, I had grabbed the closest hand to mine, which turned out to be Frankie Packman’s. We looked at each other in horror and quickly unhanded each other with a look that said, “We’ll never speak of this again.” That should have been my first lesson that courting can be a minefield.
CHAPTER 8
From kindergarten to Grade 8, I went to the very Catholic St. Edward’s School in Petty Harbour. When I walked into my kindergarten class, there were nine boys and four girls. When I graduated from Grade 8, the exact same boys and girls graduated with me. Not a single new classmate entered our school in nine years. And not a single classmate left either.
The one-room schoolhouse was not a common institution in Newfoundland by the time I started school. The era of the split-grade classroom ended in most of Newfoundland after my parents’ generation. By my day, just about everyone in the province went to school in a more typical North American fashion: in a classroom with a bunch of kids your age in your same grade in a great big school with lots of different classrooms and a library, a gym, a schoolyard to run around in at recess, a staff room, an office, a computer room and a whole bunch of other resources, too. Not so for Catholic kids in Petty Harbour. St. Edward’s was a tiny school with five small classrooms, a boys’ washroom and girls’ washroom and a principal’s office. The only other rooms were the staff room and what was supposed to be a makeshift science lab, but I never saw either of them used by anyone for either of those purposes.
Me at kindergarten graduation. I’m thinking, “I must be wicked smart by now.”
Our little white wooden school, perched right next to the Catholic church, was more notable for what it did not have. St. Edward’s had no paved parking lot or groomed grounds or any playground of any kind. It had no gymnasium, no library, no cafeteria and no music room. There were no lockers lining the two narrow hallways and there was no sweet, maternal reception lady waiting by a desk to greet students when they came through the door in the morning and left at the end of the day. In fact, there was no reception area at all.
It was a skeleton of a school, but as I heard my Catholic parents say many times, “At least we’ve got a school and don’t got to bus little children to town in the winter.” The Protestant kids, of course, didn’t go to school with us Catholic heathens. They went to school in either the nearby town of the Goulds, twenty minutes away, or in St. John’s, a forty-minute bus ride away. Bus rides in winter were something my parents swore were unsafe, and they had a point. The roads leading out of Petty Harbour were treacherous most winter days. The snowplows were no match for the amount of snow that fell, often in no time at all, and those hills were always white with snow and ice. The local council would spread salt on them, but that didn’t mean the roads weren’t dangerous and occasionally deadly. And my parents knew it.
St. Edward’s Catholic School in 1977.
“Wouldn’t mind if it was in a new safe car or something,” Mom would say, “but them buses are not fit to carry the mail around, never mind our children.” I am sorry to report that her fears would be realized when a student died in a bus accident one very sad winter day. But the fact that I didn’t ride a bus to school every day didn’t mean I was safe from all other dangers. Far from it. I had to dodge daily disaster before I even made it to class. My house was on one side of Skinner’s Hill and our school was on the other. Climbing snow-covered Skinner’s Hill in February was an undertaking for a seasoned Sherpa accustomed to Everest, never mind for a young fella trying to keep up with his older brother and sister who were cold and tired of waiting for him. You needed Arctic-grade spiked mountaineer boots to navigate Petty Harbour’s impossibly steep inclines—and that’s on a spring day. When those slopes were covered in ice, the short trek to school became a treacherous adventure.
Bern was always an adventurous and sporting yet practical engineer kind of fella. “Alan, b’y. Will you walk on the sides in the snow and not on the ice in the middle of the road, please? Do you want to wind up back down by the house?”
Kim would usually object to the injustice of it all. “Whose job is it to keep these roads safe for us to walk on? I’m writing a letter to the town council complaining about this.” (She probably did, too.)
And if that wasn’t bad enough, as soon as we’d close the door of our house and head three steps up the hill out of parental earshot, Bernie would begin talking about things that he’d never get away with in front of Mom and Dad. I recall one time when he decided to enlighten both me and Kim on the topic of how to pleasure a woman. Keep in mind that Bernie was about thirteen at the time and I was about eleven.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he said as we started up the hill. “See, Alan,” he continued, making a tight fist with his fingers but extending his long middle one, pointing it out stiff and straight. “Just like this.” He bent only his wrist up and down in front of my face. I nodded, not really sure what it was he was demonstrating but knowing enough not to ask questions. Then Bernie repeated the demonstration to Kim, who rolled her eyes, pushed h
is arm away and said, “Gross, Bernie. Eff off.” Bernie shrugged, and up the hill we went.
If Bernie’s daily antics weren’t bad enough, steps before the very peak of Skinner’s Hill, for every day of our elementary school life, Bernie, Kim and I had to deal with Gabby the Beast. My brother and sister swear to this day that Gabby was merely a canine, a canine of the common German shepherd variety. But I swear to you that the evil primordial monster guarding the Kennedy house arrived in Petty Harbour straight from the Gates of Mordor. Even though all of us Doyle kids walked past Gabby’s yard at exactly the same time and in the exact same configuration every day of the week, Gabby was always surprised to see us. His response? To launch with his fiercest snarl and growl and then to snap his hideous jaws directly at our tender calves, ankles and butts. He would grab a boot or a pant leg and pull his screaming victim back down the hill a step or two before getting distracted by someone running up ahead. He’d let go of his current prey and dash up to grab the next Doyle.
I cannot say Gabby ever drew blood during the daily attack, but he did bite all of us Doyle kids just about every day. Bern and I would make a dare out of it sometimes; other times, we’d strategize elaborate avoidance plans.
“Bernie, you go up first and get him going up the hill. You’re the fastest.”
“Yeah, and you come up the rear and see if we can lead him over the bank.”
Kim, ever sensible, once again pointed out the injustice of it all. “This is not right, you know. They should have their dog on a leash.”
Bern scoffed. “No one around here walks their dogs on leashes, Kim. Where do you think we are? California or something?” He was right.
“So? We shouldn’t have to run for our lives every morning on the way to school. There should be a rule about this. I’m going to call the town council.” (She probably did, too.)
So up the hill we’d go, and we’d be scampering in circles to distract Gabby, and if we were lucky enough, we’d cross that boundary visible only to Gabby, at which point he’d retreat to his front doorstep, pleased by another effective defence of his castle.