These words, written by a world-respected stock assessment expert, together with a dozen other studies indicating that the seas of the world hold almost unlimited potential, convince Lav that there is no reason to take a graduate student's grim predictions seriously. Zone PK3 is one of the richest fishing grounds in the world and will doubtless remain so.
At day's end, more mystified than angry—perhaps the young man is mentally ill, depressed or revengeful for some imagined wrong—she leaves work and drives to Memorial University in search of Mark Rodway.
It takes almost half an hour to find the Maritime History Archive—an underground cavern just off a network of tunnels below the University. The low-ceilinged room seems empty. A young woman sitting at a desk near the door does not even glance up when Lav walks in. She wanders around and eventually finds Mark hidden in a cubbyhole, his chair tipped back, his feet resting on a heating pipe. His head, blonde hair falling forward, is bent over a large book he has propped open on his knees.
It is a pleasant sight. Despite her annoyance and unease (for that is what her anger has become, a kind of motherly frustration—she could shake the young man, demand to know what's wrong with him, what foolishness he's been up to), she stands for a minute studying the youthful face, the bony fingers resting on the book. The scene reminds Lav of a seventeenth-century painting called “The Young Student”—the same dark background, the long blue-clad legs, the worn leather binding of the book, the slanting light that touches the planes of face and hands. Only Mark's feet, in mustard-coloured work boots, red laces dangling, are at odds with the remembered painting. She is surprised by a rush of desire.
“Hallo,” it is a kinder greeting that she had planned. Nonetheless his chair comes down with a thump and his look, a mixture of guilt and embarrassment, is disconcerting.
“Why?”
He blinks, as if he does not know what she is asking.
“Why in God's name did you send that stupid report off to Ottawa?”
“Because I knew you'd never send it,” the surly look has returned.
“Of course I wouldn't have sent it—you stupid, irresponsible child! I've spent the entire day checking the so-called facts in your report—and not one of them can be substantiated.”
“Depends who you ask,” he says and mutters something about being weighed in the balances and found wanting.
Lav has no time for his silly jokes or the Bible riddles he is so fond of. She enumerates the many ways he has broken civil-service protocol, lists the documents she has combed through, in fact, delivers an exhaustive lecture on the North Atlantic ecosystem, throughout which Mark sits, head bent, book on knees, finger marking the page as if waiting to return to his reading.
When she stops talking, having pointed out that he may well have undermined his own future as well as hers, there is such a prolonged silence that she thinks he has fallen asleep. She begins to feel quite foolish. Towering over the slouched figure she wonders how much of her tirade the young woman at the desk has heard.
Eventually, without looking up, he says, “Not a fisherman on the water wouldn't tell you the same's in that report.”
“Fishermen didn't tell—you did—and fishermen aren't the ones who will read the report,” Lav snaps.
“No one ever reads our reports,” he mutters.
“Obviously, someone read yours. Otherwise, why this sudden invasion by Wayne Drover?”
The name seems to bring him fully awake. “Wayne Drover—so that one got his slimy hands in the pie!”
He sits up straight, attentive, schoolboyish, ready to explain everything to the teacher, “That frigger's back and forth between here and Ottawa all the time—buttering up Timothy Drew's constituents, playing footsy with the Board of Trade, with anyone who'll do Drew a bit of good when election time rolls around—the university types, the church crowd, the Confederation Building boys—Drover's not a bit particular who he sucks up to. It all takes a lot of time but he loves it—grabs any excuse to come down here and play the king's messenger—‘do’ lunch with the lawyers and C.E.O.s, get invited to their cocktail parties, wine and dine their wives.”
Lav has never heard such bitterness in anyone's voice. Why he hates Wayne Drover she cannot imagine, does not want to imagine. His anger drains hers, he seems very young—young and rash and perhaps a little crazy.
Mark stands, and clutching the heavy book to his chest as if it were a shield, gazes beyond her left shoulder and returns her lecture: “Wayne Drover knows all the right people, he's done them favours and they owe him favours. Never fear, the likes of him is losing no sleep over what a couple nobodies like us sent up to Ottawa. I knew if he got his paws on our report it'd be rendered useless—defused I think they call it.”
When Lav interrupts to point out that it was not “our” report he sent to Ottawa, Mark ignores her.
“You'll like Drover,” he says, “I've watched him work—he'll be ever so charming, ever so helpful. Before he even steps off the plane he'll have a new spin on our data—have it abridged, rationalized and deodorized, just like that stuff you spent the day reading—tarted up so it wouldn't hurt a fly much less a career civil-servant like yourself.”
Lav can think of nothing to say. “We'll talk about this in the office,” she tells him.
She is about to leave but he passes her the book he's been holding. “None of that was what I asked you to come here for—there's something I think you should see,” he says.
The book is a ledger, on the leather cover, embossed in dulled gilt are the words “Ellsworth Brothers—Record of Shipping 1810 to.…” The leather is worn through at the edges, the boards show. It is the kind of book Saul would have enjoyed repairing.
Mark turns the book over as he passes it—so that the blank back cover is facing upwards. It is a gesture that will, in memory take on a slow, almost ritualistic quality.
Years later Lav will think of herself standing like a novice in that low-ceilinged room, holding the open book and watching Mark Rodway's finger move down the stained page. Imagination again, imagination imposed over memory. She probably felt no premonitions as she peered down at the faded handwriting, seeing, just above Mark's finger, her own name—Lavinia Andrews—seeing it for the first time. She is pleased with the way it slopes hopefully upward away from the straight blue lines of the ledger.
Mark launches into a long, murmured explanation that Lav hardly hears. Something about looking through microfiche material on shipping in the main library, noting the Ellsworth Ledger listed as one of the source documents, deciding to have a look at the actual ledger, seeing that the shipping record ended in the fall of 1824 with not half of the book used, flipping to the back of the book, finding her name.
It occurs to Lav that Mark is more embarrassed about the document they are holding than he had been about his own treacherous report. She would like to know what has embarrassed this usually unflappable young man—could it be something he's read in the book?
She looks down at her name—Lavinia Andrews—written in a round, childish script. It is the name she had once wanted to be called, the name her mother steadfastly refused to use. On her first day of school Charlotte had conceded, in the face of a childish tantrum, that her daughter could be registered as Lav instead of Scrap—the hated name she had been called up to then.
“Is it possible to check this book out?” she asks.
“No—none of this stuff can be removed from the archive,” Mark drops his hands from the ledger, reluctantly it seems, and steps back.
“Well then, I'll have to read it right here—maybe you'll let me have your chair,” Lav moves around him to the straight backed wooden chair he has pushed up to the heating pipe. “How late does the archive stay open?”
“Two more hours.”
She nods, says thank you, nods again. Mark doesn't move. Once again she tells him she expects him to be in the office tomorrow morning. “We'll talk then,” she says, she even smiles. At last, somewhat reluctantly,
he goes.
An awkward person. He must have expected something, some reaction she had not given—but what?
Lav dismisses Mark Rodway from her mind. Folding her coat into a cushion she sits down, tilting the chair back just as he had done. She is happy with this small, contained mystery, glad to be distracted from the larger, uncontained mysteries of fish and men. Pleased with the feel of the leather bound book, with its musty smell, with the square, solid weight of it on her knees. Lav rests her legs, unusually long for a woman, on the heating pipe and begins to read.
At first only her own name is legible. Then, slowly turning the pages, she deciphers other names: Meg, Ned, Ben—and the name of the place—Cape Random.
All the rest is a tangle of words, words crossing and criss-crossing, words over words, unrelated words twining, trailing between lines, twisting around margins, like a garden gone wild, a chaotic extravagance of flowers and weeds, shrubs, vegetables and bush, all growing together, covering every inch of paper.
She is almost ready to give up, to take herself home and to bed, to fortify herself for tomorrow. The book is half closed when her eye catches a fragment of sentence.
“…better off if Ellsworth hung Ned…” she reads—and words become voice. She hunkers down, tracking Lavinia's child-like hand, feeling along the stem, through the undergrowth, untangling her words from those others who have written around and over and through her story.
Much later when the smartly dressed attendant taps Lav on the shoulder, she has only gotten to the second page of the journal. Blinking myopically she swims up from the net of words, up through layers of years, up into fluorescent light and the faint smell of scorched rubber rising from her boots.
Lav has the impression that the librarian has been standing beside her for some time. Trying to assume a professional manner, she gets to her feet, explains that she has not finished, that she will have to take the Ellsworth Ledger with her.
That will be impossible, the young woman says. The archive contains only original documents and these cannot be removed. She might copy the section needed—but even that seems unnecessary since the material already exists on microfiche in the main library.
Turning the book so that the librarian can see the words “Ellsworth Journal” on the front cover, Lav explains that this material is invaluable—necessary for research she is doing on shipping in the 19th century. “I must have it in the original—I'll do whatever's necessary, sign for it, make a deposit.” she produces a handful of plastic cards that identify her as a Canadian citizen, an Associate of the National Research Council, a contributor to Queen's Alumni Fund, an employee of the Department of Fisheries, a MasterCard holder, a member of some forgotten group called The Industry and Science Seminar, a volunteer at the National Gallery, a B positive blood donor.
The beautiful young woman will not be moved. She holds out her hand for the book, watches impassively as Lav struggles into her wrinkled coat, then walks her to the door.
Hearing the lock click behind her, Lav feels bereft—and guilty. She hesitates in the passageway, examining this feeling, thinking about the girl named Lavinia Andrews, about the family that may well be her family, wishing there was a way she could have taken the book home.
The journal has kept for more than a hundred and sixty years, it will keep until tomorrow. Even as she tells herself this, Lav knows she will have to go back, ask the librarian to keep the book on reserve. Of course no one can take it out, still, someone, maybe even Mark Rodway, might come in to read it. She knocks loudly on the door which is opened immediately by the attendant, obviously on her way out. With an air of one doomed to martyrdom she lets Lav back in, turns on the lights and makes out a “hold” card which she clips onto the book.
This time they leave together, walking in silence through deserted tunnels, up the echoing iron steps and out into the damp night. When Lav realizes that the attendant is walking, not to the parking lot but to a bus stop at the corner, she calls after her asking if she would like a lift.
The girl hesitates only a moment before coining over to the car. She smiles and shrugs, having dropped her official manner she seems much younger. “Might just as well—I probably missed the last bus on your account anyway,” she says ungraciously—making Lav reflect that she must curb this impulse to give lifts to strangers.
Her name is Lori Sutton, a commerce student who has taken a night job in the archive. It's a good place to work, she tells Lav, hardly anyone comes in at night so it's easier to study than in the small flat she shares with two friends.
“On Saturdays I work in a shop in the Village Mall, they only pay minimum wage but I get a discount on clothes,” she eyes Lav's rumpled coat and suggests she drop into the shop sometime. “We've got some beautiful coats in right now—that new shiny stuff—looks like satin but it's waterproof and don't wrinkle.”
She continues her easy chatter, nodding to left or right as they come to intersections.
Lav is no longer listening. Her mind is filled with the image of a girl sitting beside the sea writing. She reflects on what she's just read, comparing Lavinia Andrews' arrival at: Cape Random with the arrival her mother described. She speculates on how the Ellsworth Journal could have gotten into the Maritime Archives, remembers her mother's saying, “The child's father came from the Maritimes.” Lav remembers playing with the word—merrytime, marrytime, maritimes…how romantic it had once sounded. She is dizzy with words, faint with hunger.
Lori Sutton shouts, “Stop!” and Lav manages to bring the car to a neck-jarring halt. Lori tells Lav she has just driven down a perpendicular hill and crossed three one-way streets—but it's all right, “We weren't caught and this is where I live.”
They are parked in front of a row of narrow houses, all attached, all painted the same dark oily colour, each house has three concrete steps leading up to a peeling door.
Lori points at a house identical to its neighbours, “See, up there—that's our flat—the one on top. Next month we'll get drapes for that window. We're getting mats this month. It's a nice place, really—see how we even got a little balcony by the window!”
Lav glances up) at the third storey, at the bright, uncurtained window looking out on a rickety wooden fire escape, knowing that what she sees is not what the girl beside her sees. Lav wonders if she had ever in her life been so young, so pleased with herself, so confident?
Having pointed out her apartment, Lori Sutton shows no sign of going into it. She leans back and continues the story Lav has missed the beginning of, “…but I couldn't see any sense to marryin' a fisherman—so I broke up with him. There's no life in Chance Harbour, no life and no fun. I tell ya girl, a person can't live without a bit of fun—a bit of fun and a bit of life around 'em. Now here in town there's always somethin' goin' on day and night,” Lori gestured to the dingy street.
While Lori talks Lav looks at the street, which is empty except for two leather jacketed teenagers lounging on the steps of a house four doors down. Street lights cast an ominous mauve glow, barely penetrating the fog that seems to rise from the gritty sidewalks, from the filthy snow piled around each pole. On the opposite side of the street six boarded-up houses await demolition. A billboard proclaiming “Luxury apartments now renting” has been covered with fluorescent graffiti of the most unimaginative kind.
“Why not marry a fisherman?” Lav asks.
The question brings such an incredulous look to the pert little face that Lav wants to laugh—does laugh.
“What? Marry a fisherman—marry a fisherman and miss all this!”
Lori Sutton is enthralled, captivated by this place where streets exist, where there are sidewalks and street-lights, where there are jobs, money, men and little flats for girls such as herself—clever girls, girls brave enough to leave Chance Harbour.
The young woman radiates impatience, is frantic to learn everything and to learn it as fast as possible. She says so: “I got to catch up on the townies,” she says with a laugh, ticki
ng off the things she must catch up on: the proper way to talk, what clubs to go to, how to make salads from things she's never eaten, how to recognize the right kind of music. She must learn the names of popular musicians, learn how to paint her eyes, how to make money, how to choose wine, choose dresses, choose carpets, furniture—men.
Lav finds herself thinking uncharitable thoughts about Lori Sutton, wondering if she is this frank with everyone. She concludes that this young woman cannot be as ingenuous as she seems, has probably calculated the appeal of unguarded enthusiasm.
“…I wasted my first year—hardly left residence. I was a real mouse, but that was before I met Kim and Treese—before I got into Commerce and started going out with Darren.…”
Lori has noticed Mark Rodway and is interested, “I saw you talkin' to him—he's gorgeous! I'm still not sure how serious I am about Darren. Anyway, he's up in Lab City on a work-term right now—besides, there's no harm in keepin' an eye out for prospects.…”
She finally runs down. Momentarily self-conscious, perhaps regretting her frankness, she thanks Lav politely and gets quietly out of the car. As Lav watches the girl go into the shabby house it occurs to her that the conversation has been very like the one she hoped to have with the witch-woman she picked up on Signal Hill—a lesson on survival in this damp and dismal place.
As she turns the car around and retraces her way through the labyrinth of one-way streets, Lav is not thinking of Lavinia Andrews the journal woman, nor of Wayne Drover the man from Ottawa, but of Lori Sutton and her philosophy.
“I tell ya, girl, a person can't live without a bit of fun—a bit of fun and a bit of life around 'em,” she repeats the words aloud. Tired as she is they make her smile.
four
The power of imagination over memory, the power of choice over forgetfulness. Lav is sure, or tells herself she is sure, she has not imagined her past. She would like to be sure she has not forgotten important parts of it—but knows this to be untrue. She has forgotten—and deliberately.
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