Waiting for Time

by Bernice Morgan

  “All Vinnie'd have to do is change a few of them numbers, or scratch things out,” she'd explained again and again.

  Ned would not hear tell of such a thing, “That man been a good friend to us Andrews ever since we set foot in the place. Let us live off him that first winter, he did—and look at how he got books for the youngsters in Vinnie's school and how he lets us use the wharf and flakes, for all 'tis him pays Ben ta keep 'em in repair. No girl, I puts great faith in Thomas Hutchings!”

  “Go on, Ned ya don't know one thing about him. For all we knows he might be cheatin' us blind—might be the worst kind of crook ever lived!” Mary had made her usual retort. She was wondering if enough money remained in Thomas's tin to fit out a vessel.

  “I'd trust Thomas Hutchings with me life, Mary. So could you—so could any of us! No better man on this coast for all he's one of them Papist priests.”

  Mary had been shocked into silence. In all her speculation about the man she had never considered such a thing.

  “Lookin' back on it now I wonders anyone could ha' been so stunned,” Mary tells her great-granddaughter.

  “I didn't let on to Ned, but I knew right off Thomas Hutchings were really Father Commins, the murderer Peter told me 'bout years before—the very man Matt Escott and that judge were lookin' for—the mad priest who killed an Englishman and ran away—that were Thomas! And him all the time livin' here, lordin' it over us!”

  “Soon as the words were outta Ned's mouth I could see he was sorry. Got right flustered he did—made me promise not ta tell a soul. Never did, neither. Apart from Thomas hisself, you be the first person ever heard such things from my lips. Years and years after, when Vinnie told me all about it, I acted like 'twas somethin' I never heard tell of before.”

  After swearing Mary to secrecy Ned had tried to change the subject: “I got a feelin' this one's gonna be a girl—let's get a good name for her,” he reached out, patted Mary's belly and began rhyming off a list of improbable names.

  But Mary was not to be coaxed out of her sombre mood. “What difference what we's called, any of us? All we got to do is live and die—work like dogs when them rich buggers needs us, and starve when they don't have no more use for us—and never in our lives havin' enough ta fill our guts or cover our backs!” she had started to cry.

  “Never trusts me, do ya Mary? Never thinks I'm able ta look after ya?” Ned said. She remembers the hurt pride in his voice. “There must be somethin' we can do, Ned—somethin' so's we'll never be in want again!”

  “No girl, I don't believe there is, don't believe there's a mortal thing people like us can do. 'Tis all fate, see—all fate!”

  He pulled her head down onto his chest and stroked her hair: “All fate, all fate! Like Young Char read out this mornin'—‘By fate Abraham, when he were called of God to go into a land he would after receive for an inheritance, set sail not knowin' whither the wind would take him.’”

  Ned's ability to memorize such things always astonished Mary. She often wondered if there was a living in it—could money be made from such a talent? But that day she would not be distracted, “You mean ta tell me this God feller expects people ta go off without makin' a plan?”

  “Yes girl—where the wind takes us—whenever the spirit moves us—just like I been doin' all me life. Same as you done, Mary—same as we does when we keeps on havin' youngsters. Like the sands of the sea our youngsters are—like the sands of the sea we are—comin' and goin' and not knowin' whither we went,” Ned rolled out the words, repeating them again and again as he dribbled a handful of sand into Mary's hair.

  “That how you screedless crowd got here, then—by fate?” Mary has often asked how the Andrews family had come to be on the Cape but had never gotten the same answer twice.

  “Yes girl tha's how 'twas—by fate. Not knowin' whither we went—that was us Andrews. Followin' promises we was—followin' the promises of God.”

  “What promises?” asked Mary. Although she rarely listened closely when Ned was entertaining a crowd she was always delighted to have him telling stories just to her. “What promises, Ned?” she said, urging him on.

  “That old man I met in St. John's—the one I told you 'bout before?” Seized by some new thought Ned sat up, “I'll be damned!” he said, rolled over and resting on one elbow looked her in the eye: “Mary, that man musta been God!”

  Her husband's face changed from awe, to astonishment, to delight as the idea took root and blossomed. Mary felt the familiar glow that overcame her whenever she let down her defences to Ned, not in their wildest lovemaking had she loved him as much as she did at that moment. Certainty shone in his face and ever so briefly the possibility of God—a God who would come down and talk to someone in a potato garden—seemed right and natural. The thought had left her breathless, wordless.

  “Yes girl—God hisself in St. John's! Don't that beat all!”

  Doubt swept back, “God in St. John's!” she laughed out loud and the world returned to normal.

  “That He were—though I shouldn't blame meself for not knowin' at the time. Far as I could see He were just an old man diggin' up potatoes—strange old bugger, looked like He been dug up Hisself. Had this dirty beard, same colour as the brin bags tied around His shoulders. Often wondered why I even stopped to talk to Him, instead of goin' on to the grog shop with the rest. I sees now 'twas fate—'twas meant to be.”

  “Go on boy, you'd talk to cats if they'd listen!” she had said, but Ned didn't hear.

  “Yer seed shall be as the sands of the sea, tha's what He told me. Right about that, weren't He! Reamed off a lot more old stuff while we grubbed up potatoes—told me I were favoured by fortune. Them were His very words—‘favoured by fortune.’ Told me I'd go to a place that wasn't a cape nor an island but a bit of both. Said we could go together, Him and me—that there'd be a gold casket filled with jewels handy to where we'd land. He called it the place of turrs, wanted me ta jump ship and go with Him right then and there!”

  “Why didn't ya, then?”

  “'Cos I had Hazel and Mam and them waitin' for me back in Weymouth. You knows I couldn't just vanish, never be heard tell of again, sure it would ha killed Mam. Still'n all I had it in mind ta go back the next year—promised I would, in fact. Before I left He rolls out this barrel of fish for me—then He give me a token.”

  The sand was warm, and the children all barred in Meg's house listening to Bible stories. Mary was enjoying herself, feeling happier than she had in weeks. “Shoulda got a map from Him—made 'im mark out where that casket was. Woulda done ya a sight more good than that barrel of fish what got ya into so much trouble.”

  “Na girl—ya don't understand how God works—He don't give out maps, He teases us like He done with Abraham that time pretendin' He wanted him ta kill Isaac. Teases us with fate, God do. We don't have to do nothin', it just sweeps us along, like an undertow—we got no control over it. Only God knows how 'tis—He's it!” Ned pauses, struck by his own brilliance, “Ya s'pose I should change me name to Abraham?”

  “What foolishness you goes on with—enough people in this place already changed names seems ta me! I s'pose fate found ya that gold casket and all them jewels? S'pose ya got it hid away all this time have ya, just waitin' for God ta tell ya what to do with it?”

  “Na girl, never seen hide nor hair of it. But 'tis out there somewhere!” Ned sighed. “Like Meg says, God's ways is not our ways. Them jewels still tucked safe away in some crack or cranny on Turr Island. But don't worry, maid, we'll have it yet—if time should last He'll make sure we haves it all.”

  “Maybe yer old God wants us ta give Him a hand—ever think that? Maybe we should all be out there haulin' the friggin' place apart rock by rock,” Mary nods towards the tiny island, shrouded in a mist that is rolling slowly in towards the Cape.

  “Wouldn't do one bit of good—with God ya got ta have patience—patience and trust—things you're shorthanded in, Mary me love. He brought me here and someday I'll get a sign sho
win' me where that gold casket is—maybe I'll see it in a dream—or maybe a seagull'll drop a ruby or diamond right down on me head. Imagine that, Mary—us lyin' here and this dirty great gull swoopin' straight down—sent from God ta show us where that casket of gold is!”

  “Shit on us, more likely,” she said, watching the white birds criss-cross the sky, dropping mussels on rocks then diving for the tiny, soft bodies inside. “What token did he give ya?” she asked.

  There was no answer, Ned had fallen asleep. He smiled in his sleep, dreaming no doubt of diamonds spiralling downwards, glittering and turning in the sun. He was like a sun himself—his round face open and trusting as a child's, surrounded by orange hair and beard. Mary leaned forward awkwardly and kissed him, then, moving her lips to his ear, she hissed: “What token?”

  He woke with a start, “What token? What token?” he blinked and muttered the word ‘token’ several times. “What token?” he asked again.

  “The one you said the old man give ya along with the barrel of fish—God's token!”

  “Ah yes. God's token,” for a moment Ned seemed at a loss. He began searching his pockets, “Let me see now—I had it in here—seen it a fortnight ago.…

  One by one he pulled things from his pocket: a shard of pink; glass, smoothed by the sea but still holding the faint outline of a five petalled rose, two flint arrowheads, three fire blackened nails, the shell of a sea urchin and a dull metal thing that was beginning to rust. Holding these objects in his cupped palm he squints at them.

  “Here 'tis! I was afeared I'd lost it,” he beamed and held out what looked like a belt buckle, “See? A token!” he traced a design incised into the rusty metal.

  “'Tis only an old buckle—broke too!”

  “You got no reverence, Mary! See them lines?” he traced the design, “them's God's name—you know's yourself God'd have a belt buckle with his name on it.”

  “What's his name then? I allow you don't even know his name.” “God of the land, god of the sea and god of the land under the sea,” Ned intoned.

  The words had sent a shiver down her spine but she had not let on, just asked, “If yer so smart why didn't ya go find him then—them times ya been to St. John's?”

  “He's gone, girl. Vanished. Every time I goes to the ice I asks after him—not a soul from town ever heard tell of 'em—Godforsaken's what St. John's is.”

  “Make no wonder we never gets ahead—after you breakin' a promise to God!”

  “You're a scoffer, Mary.” Ned had slipped the piece of metal back into his pocket, reached out and placed a loud kiss on her lips, “For all that I forgives ya. When I finds nue casket 'twill have a buckle just like this one—and I'll give ya half of all the stuff inside, rings for your fingers and bells for your toes, Mary Bundle—you'll hang gold in your ears and stick jewels in your belly button like a real gypsy.”

  “Found his casket all right,” the old woman in the kitchen says with great bitterness.

  “Next spring he was lyin' in it—out on the point beside Hazel—no gold, no jewels, no token from God. Unless bein' put down in the ground is a token, unless bein' tore apart by a beast is a token.”

  It is the first time in all the years since that Mary has ever spoken of Ned's death. It still angers her. She orders Rachel to write around Lavinia's account of Ned's death that it was Thomas Hutchings' fault.

  “Them days was hundreds of wild animals about—along with Indians and pirates. Strangers, too, the youngsters'd always be seein' strangers in the woods. Meg would chastise hers for lyin' but I believed 'em. Stands to reason me and Thomas Hutchings wasn't the only two villains hidin' out along this shore. Time and time again I got after Thomas to get us something better'n the old muzzle-loader. All that money he had in the tin he coulda got a good gun from St. John's—but he didn't and was his fault what happened to Ned and Isaac that day.”

  Mary describes for Rachel how it had been. The land and sea all frozen, the huge animal, dirty white, reared up on its hind legs, pawing at the two bodies—the blood and the terrible silence when she stopped screaming.

  “It wouldn'ta happened if Peter Vincent'd been in the place. But Peter were gone and the muzzle-loader along with him. Us people left defenceless as babies—all through Thomas Hutchings' carelessness!”

  That night Mary rants on for hours, weeping for the ancient grief, pouring out her rage at having lost Ned, at having been left with a crowd of children and pregnant.

  “Think on it—we was married only fourteen year and I been more'n sixty year without him! Beside meself I was. Then, the very day Ned and Isaac was buried I found out Fanny were knocked up—big as a barrel with Thomas Hutchings' youngster in her! I made him marry her, though—you can mark that down in Vinnie's book. Mary Bundle made Thomas Hutchings marry her daughter. Told him I knew all about him and I'd have him carted away in shackles if he didn't!”

  Rachel protests, surely the child had not belonged to Thomas, “Lavinia wrote out that it were the Red Indian was the father of Fanny's youngster!”

  Mary gives the young woman a scathing look: “Don't pay no heed to that—that were Vinnie's romancin'. She didn't want to think her darlin' Thomas done such a thing to a young maid like Fanny.”

  “But Nan, what about that day on the beach, the day Grandfather Toma were born? The book says the Indian come that day and tried to drag Fanny away!”

  “Some poor lost savage, half-mad with loneliness, his own people perished or slaughtered. Crowd in St. John's used to have a bounty on Indians in them days. Used to catch 'em alive to show off to the King or some such thing—always the women they used to get like that. I s'pose the poor mortal saw us on the beach and went out of his mind—tried to drag off a woman just like his own been dragged off more'n likely.”

  Mary studies the sad little face of her great-granddaughter, who is a granddaughter of the baby born on the beach that day: “Don't pay no mind to that stuff Lavinia wrote down. Though she was forever after poor Ned for tellin' yarns, Vinnie handled the truth careless herself betimes.”

  But Rachel has heard many versions of this story. She reminds Mary that the Indian who had tried to drag Fanny off just before she gave birth was also called Toma: “My Grandfather Toma—how come he got named after the Indian if 'twarn't his father?”

  “Toma were just a name Vinnie dreamt up—out of them old plays more'n likely. Ever come to ya, Toma sounds a lot like Thomas? And why would Thomas Hutchings rear the boy like his own? Sure your Grandfather Toma's the spittin' image of Thomas, sober as a judge. Not a bit of fun in 'im. Comfort herself told me she useta have to hide his books ta get him into bed with her.”

  “None of we crowd is related to Red Indians, then?” Rachel sounds wistful. “I told Stephen I got me dark skin from the Indian who was me grandfather's father—he liked that.”

  Mary picks up the girl's hand, small, rough and bony and very brown. Like her own hands before the joints thickened, before heavy veins and dark splotches appeared. She runs her hand over Rachel's. “No maid, yer just like me mother Una. I seen it t'other night—you standin' by the table for all the world like me mother. She were one of them old people, them what used to own England afore the tall fair ones come. She was proud of that—said it gave her second sight,” Mary pats Rachel's hand and tells her to go on up to bed.

  Mary has not told Rachel everything she knows about that day on the beach, the day Fanny died and Toma was born. She sits up half the night wondering how much of the story can be written down. What use to speculate now about who Fanny had made fast to? To wonder if she'd done right forcing Thomas to marry her poor foolish daughter? What use to tell Rachel how she had found Peter Vincent that night, holding Fanny's body, weeping like a lost, frightened child?

  Peter had looked wild, more animal than man with his long, dirty hair and matted beard and the smell of woods and earth and dried blood on him. “I always loved Fanny—anyone coulda seen that—anyone looked at me. 'Course no one ever did,” he said fiercely.<
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  He had eased Fanny's body down onto the table but kept her hands folded inside his as if he were holding a small bird, “That Indian who tried to take Fanny away today—him and me been friends since we was boys,” he told Mary.

  Those two, first as children and later as men, met secretly summer after summer. They had roamed the countryside, hunted together. One winter Peter even travelled into the interior with the Indian, met the rest of his family, two men and a woman, the last survivors of the tribe.

  “No one ever took no heed of what I done,” he said. “Then, this fall, when I got home I saw right off how 'twas with Fanny—knowed you and Mudder and Meg'd gotten her married up with Thomas Hutchings. I'd like to have made away with the whole lot of ye.” Peter was trying to whisper and his voice came out rough and rasping, thick with menace.

  Gave me the shivers, he did that night, Mary thinks, remembering how Peter was always the one with the gun, how he had attacked Thomas Hutchings that day on the wharf. And here he was standing over Fanny's dead body saying he'd had a mind to kill them all.

  Never flinched, I didn't, not even when I saw he was out of his mind—just stood alongside him listenin'. Mary would like to tell Rachel this, to have the girl record how brave she had been—but no, too many threads run out from that night, untied, unconnected threads that will do no one any good.

  “I see now 'twas him—the Indian—all the time,” Peter said. Then he described how after he and the Indian fought on the beach he had tracked the man, bashed his head in. He told her where to find the body. The young man had spoken matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about something that happened a long, long time ago instead of that very day.

  Mary said she didn't care where the body was, didn't care what he had done, or why. She advised him to get away from the Cape before light, gave him Ned's heavy coat and watched as he walked away up the path that led back through the marsh. She never saw him again and never told anyone about their meeting over Fanny's body. Nor will she tell Rachel now—some things are better left unsaid.