Waiting for Time

by Bernice Morgan

  “Don't be so stunned, Pam—she's talkin' about the Cat,” one of her friends says and shouts towards the car, “Just keep on goin', missis, ya can't miss it.”

  Not fifty yards down the road, in the middle of a parking lot that has been blasted out of a cliff, Lav finds the barracks-like building, over the door another large Pepsi sign identifies it as Cat Harbour Inn. Half of the motel front is covered with aqua-coloured plastic siding, the rest had once been painted deep purple. Mercifully, most of the paint has peeled away, revealing weathered grey wood.

  Pushing open the front door, Lav finds herself in a large room, cold and windowless, empty except for ten arborite tables lined up against one wall. Each table holds a glass vase containing two plastic flowers. On the opposite wall, near the ceiling, a huge television screen has been installed. At the far end of the room is a bar and behind the bar a white refrigerator. A small red lamp on top of the refrigerator provides the room's only light.

  Lav lets the front door slam noisily, but no one appears from behind the bar. She coughs and waits. Nothing happens.

  She walks around the room inspecting a collection of community relics hung on the walls: a set of oarlocks, a brass plaque inscribed “Davisporte Champs 1986” surrounded by yearly pictures of the Davisporte bowling team, an old-fashioned doorlock and key, many horseshoes. One wall is covered with a fishing net. Caught inside the net are bits of driftwood, a set of a false teeth, shells, two plastic sharks and a long harpoon, used, according to a small square of yellowing paper pinned to the net, to hunt the largest beasts on earth, blue whales that sometimes weigh several tons.

  Things have been attached to the walls on each side of the net: a collection of sunsets painted in garish orange on black velvet, a pencilled notice: “Piano Lessons—five dollars per hour, six dollars for advanced students,” two calendars, the current one from Hibernia Oil depicts a huge concrete cube rising against a sunrise—“Assurance For Tomorrow!” is written across the sky. The other calendar, dated 1953, is from Pope's Furniture Factory Est. 1860 cind has a picture of a ship under canvas. Further along a lovely hooked mat is hung next to a glossy autographed photo of Brigitte Bardot embracing a fluffy white seal and smiling up at a menacing figure holding a club. There are a dozen or so business cards, a varnished lobster and a large framed map of Newfoundland listing ships lost around the coast, beside many of the ships' names, the names of the men who died have been pencilled in.

  Lav studies each artifact, reads every name on the map, the same surnames appear over and over again: Gill, Andrews, Davis, Norris, Vincent, Stokes, Hounsell, Blackwood, Hutchings, Barbour.

  There is no air in the room, no daylight, no music, no warmth, no sounds, no smells—nothing. The thought brushes across her mind that time has stopped: that outside, no one is left alive—or that everything has changed, gone backward, or forward in time. Lav is becoming accustomed to such fanciful ideas, and for a minute she gives in to them. Afraid, she turns instinctively towards the door, has almost reached it when it opens and a huge box marked Delsey Tissue slides into the room.

  Behind the box, manipulating it through the door, comes a thin, fox-faced girl, dressed all in black. The huge dangling earrings and brassy-green spiked hair, the blackest lips and whitest skin Lav has ever seen are astonishing enough, but there is something else about the girl, an intensity, a concentration of energy in the small white face, in the thin arms holding the pile of clean sheets, in the flat, black-clad hip pushing against the cardboard box.

  So intent is the girl on getting through the doorway that she does not see Lav. Once in, she lays the sheets on the box and flicks a switch by the door. Twenty or more fluorescent tubes flash on—so suddenly, so glaringly, that Lav gasps.

  “Sweet fuck!” the girls green-tipped fingers go to her throat. “I thought you was a ghost.” Then, in a more business-like voice, “Can I help you?”

  Not waiting for an answer the girl crosses the room, goes behind the bar and begins pulling out drawer after drawer, muttering under her breath.

  “My name is Andrews—Lavinia Andrews—I have a reservation, Is Mr. Andrews in?”

  “Oh yes,” the girl abandons her search, opens a tattered exercise book of the kind Lav had used in school. “I minds your callin',” she licks her thumb and begins flicking through the lined pages. “Well, love, by the look of it you got your choice of rooms—you want to stay in the new rooms up aloft or go out in one of the little cabins? The cabins got stoves and fridges.”

  “Is Mr. Andrews in?” Lav asks again, as if she must see Alf Andrews before committing herself to a room in his motel.

  “I don't allow he'll be in—Grandmother Andrews passed on night before last—the funeral's this afternoon.”

  “His Grandmother Rachel? She's dead!” Lav feels an immediate and terrible sense of loss. How stupid she had been not to come before.

  “Well she was almost a hundred. Nan and Aunt Doss were plannin' a big party for her in July—she'd a got a message from the Queen, even. Aunt Doss says Rachel Andrews were an old woman when she was a girl.”

  Lav is sure this is true, despite her elaborate makeup the apparition before her can be no more than sixteen. The child's Aunt Doss is probably younger that I am, she thinks, remembering the childhood envy she had felt for the many aunts her friend Audrey had possessed.

  “Are you a relative, then?” the green haired girl really looks at Lav for the first time, appraises the linen slacks, the yellow blouse and sweater and is not impressed.

  “I think I might be a distant relative.” During one of her phone calls Alf 's mother, Selina, told Lav that she and Alf were second cousins once removed. While she is pondering what relationship this might be, a door behind the bar opens and a man holding a large glass of whiskey comes into the room.

  He knows at once who she is, “I was thinkin' you'd be gettin' in later than this.” He reaches into the fridge, drops ice cubes into his drink.

  The girl gives him a sharp, appraising look and pushes the exercise book towards him, “Nan said you wasn't comin' in today. Everyone's checked out and I'm finishin' off the back rooms.” She glances at Lav, “Dad'll take care of ya now,” she says and Vanishes.

  “Your Grandmother said to get that stuff out of your hair before the funeral!” the man shouts at the swinging door before turning to ask Lav if she would like a drink.

  Lav nods. Alf Andrews is older than she had expected—five or so years older than herself. Tall and broad but not fat. He has straight black hair that falls across his face. It is a closed face, hard even, with high cheek bones and a narrow tight mouth. He wears a dark green shirt and a brown suit jacket. When he comes from behind the bar, she sees that the jacket is too tight across the shoulders and a terrible match for the cord trousers. He looks untidy and slightly dusty all over.

  Alf Andrews is studying her, too, not bothering to hide it, sipping his drink, taking his time to look her over. There is no more approval in his eyes than there had been in his daughter's.

  Lav tries to imagine what he is seeing—a tall woman, just as tall as he, a woman who can no longer be called young. She knows the slacks draw attention to the thickness of her hips and, unfortunately, hide her long, quite attractive, legs. Her hair, which has never returned to its Ottawa condition, hangs shoulder length, speckled with grey but smooth and shiny.

  She cannot imagine what he must think of her face. Lav herself has never made up her mind about her face—it is all right, she supposes—not what she would have chosen perhaps, still, nothing to be ashamed of. She has freckles, a sharply pointed nose and a bottom lip far too big for her narrow chin—but in the right light, with the right makeup, she knows it can be a dignified, even attractive face.

  She starts to feel uneasy under the long, silent scrutiny. “I'm very sorry—really sorry, to hear about your grandmother,” she says.

  He leads her to one of the arborite tables. “Yes it's too bad—too bad you had to come all this way,” he says when the
y are seated.

  “I didn't mean that. It was a pleasant drive.”

  “…there was always a trail of people down here in summertime wantin' to see her. Old codgers workin' on their family trees and the university crowd with their tape recorders.” Alf Andrews gazes into his glass as if it might contain the secret to mankind's strange behaviour.

  “I expect if you wanted to know anything about old times along this coast, the best place to look would be in Memorial's Folklore Department. Lord knows they traipsed back and forth here often enough.”

  Alf Andrews is right. That is just what she should have done, used the resources of the university. She, of all people, should know that. How crazy she's been—how foolish to imagine some old woman would confide family secrets to her. What would Rachel possibly remember? And if remembered, why would she tell a stranger?

  “Could I—could I see her?” to Lav the words sound bizarre but Alf Andrews does not even blink.

  “Sure, sure if you want—the funeral's at four. We'll have one more drink, then you can follow me over to the house. She's laid out over at Mother's—didn't want to be taken to the funeral home.”

  Laid out! Lav thinks, already sorry she has asked to see the old woman. She traces her fingernail over letters someone has scratched into the dull blue tabletop: “Frank A is a cocksucker.” Could the A stand for Andrews? And does Frank A know this message is here for all to read?

  In the parking lot Alf Andrews climbs into a mud spattered pick-up truck, beckons for her to follow and takes off at what seems a suicidal speed back the way she had come. Past the Kosy Kafe, past the church, the general store. At the post office he swerves suddenly right towards the sea, driving along a steep lane—a path really—between fields of spring grass and recently turned earth. Each bit of land, some no larger than a room, is outlined with a picket fence.

  At the end of the lane are two houses, a bright pink bungalow and a square, steep-roofed two-storey. The bungalow faces towards the lane and is built on a high concrete foundation. It has perpendicular steps climbing up to a long veranda on the ocean side. However, it must be impossible to see the ocean from the veranda because directly behind it, separated by a few yards of grass, a wood-pile and a clothesline, is the other house.

  Planted on a rock right next to the sea, the second house stands square, white and tall with three small-paned windows under the eaves and two below, one on either side of what must be the front door. It is a beautiful house, much older than the bungalow but freshly painted and tidy, although grass grows right up to the door and there are no curtains at the windows.

  “What a lovely old house,” Lav says as she goes through the gate.

  Alf Andrews glances at the empty house, makes a non-committal noise, says, “Watch out—that bottom step is high,” and starts ahead of her up the steps towards the pink bungalow.

  “Strange type,” Lav thinks. She is feeling slightly light-headed from having downed two drinks on an empty stomach and is as apprehensive as if she were entering an African village to observe some unknown ritual.

  At the top of the steps the man holds the door, letting her go before him rato what seems to be a large kitchen. Cupboards line the walls but there are no chairs. Men stand around the room, arms crossed, leaning against counters. One woman, young and blonde, wearing tight jeans, is perched on a freezer. Everyone wears outdoor jackets and heavy boots. The woman and several of the men hold beer bottles. A round, comfortable looking man, the only one wearing a tie and suit, is laughing at something the blonde woman has said.

  As Lav steps into the room the laughter stops, every face turns towards her. Alf Andrews doesn't even slow down. Edging her past the room's occupants he mutters, “Mother'll be in here,” and leads her through to the real kitchen: green and cream paint, pale yellow curtains, gleaming white stove and refrigerator; a table covered with cut glass plates on which cookies, pink, pale green and fluffy white, little sandwiches and neatly sliced fruit cake have been symmetrically arranged. Lav's mouth waters but she is swept past the food, through the kitchen into a third room.

  After the dazzling brightness of the kitchen this room seems dark. Curtains are drawn and only one dim lamp, strategically placed at the head of the coffin, is lit. The coffin, set foursquare facing the door, is supported by chairs or benches that have been draped with dark wine-coloured cloth.

  The coffin is large. Surely, Lav thinks, much too large for one woman. She studies the shiny brass handles, the open cover padded in gleaming satin. A picture painted on the upper half of the satin, the part that would come down over the face, shows pink and blue angels surrounding the throne of God, long yellow stripes radiate out from the pastel scene. Just below God's feet a nose, a dead putty-like thing the very shape of her own, points upward. It is the only part of Rachel Andrews she can see from the doorway.

  Lav becomes aware of a small, perky woman, her hair in tight, peach coloured curls, her head jutting forward between bony shoulders, peering out of the gloom.

  “This is Lavinia Andrews, Mother. The one's been callin' about Nan,” Alf 's voice is as impersonal as his touch. This woman is Selina, then—Lav had expected someone taller, more commanding. The thought is barely formed when Selina's fingers grip her elbow and she is propelled towards the coffin.

  “Not another drop for any of that crowd out back—give them all a good cup of tea,” Selina calls after Alf who has quickly left the room. Then, sighing dramatically, she turns to stand beside Lav and stare down at the dead woman.

  The hesitant, frightened fifteen-year-old, that Rachel who wrote those wispy, web-like lines into Lavinia's journal, is long gone. The head resting on the pink satin pillow could be that of some ancient Egyptian pharaoh, Yuya perhaps who lies in the Cairo Museum, or Una buried in the paupers' field outside Coltsford, it could be Mary Bundle or the Indian, whose graves, though more recent, have already slipped into the sea.

  Only the nose is like Lav's. The rest of the face, the dark skin, the protruding cheek bones, the broad high forehead, the mouth, pressed into a narrow brown line, are very like Alf Andrews'. Yet the old woman's face is stronger than her grandson's. Even now with the skin like flaking, transparent pastry, with the eyes closed and the cheeks fallen in, Lav can see the determination.

  “She was a determined woman,” Lav says aloud—just as if she had known Rachel all her life. She is pleased with the comment, which seems an acceptable thing to say. Perhaps I'll be alright after all, she thinks.

  “That she was—right to the end. You know her last night on earth she was still talkin' about havin' the old house out back fixed up before summer. My dear, that woman was so determined she could change the wind around if she put her mind to it!”

  Rachel has been dressed tastefully in what looks to be silk, a purple silk dress with a pale lace collar held together with an amethyst pin. Lav wonders if it can possibly be the pin Una had given to her daughter Tessa.

  Selina notices her staring at the brooch, “It's a keepsake, Nan got from her great-grandmother. We're supposed to take it off her before the casket's closed. It's to go to Rachel Jane.” Selina's sniff indicates disapproval of her mother-in-law's choice of recipient for the brooch.

  Lav is surprised to find that she quite enjoys looking at the old woman's face. It has a quality missing from live faces, a kind of calm openness, as if any moment it will reveal some secret. They stand beside the coffin for two or three minutes before Selina, her strong fingers again clamped onto Lav's arm, leads her to a corner. Three sides of the darkened room are lined with women and children seated on straight-backed chairs, watching in such complete silence that Lav has not been aware of their presence. As they approach one woman stands and smiles towards them.

  “This is Doris, my daughter-in-law,” Selina says.

  Lav stares at the attractive, placid face—can this be Alf Andrews' wife?

  “It's nice of you to come down,” the woman is saying. “I'll be off now—get supper for the boys and be
back in time for the service.”

  Selina gestures Lav into the vacated chair before following Doris out of the room. Lav sits, bows her head and closes her eyes. She is feeling ill from the whiskey and from hunger. No one speaks. The women on either side of her do not move.

  They must have thought she was praying because the instant she straightens up the woman on her left turns and whispers, “A good age, she come to a good age,” she dabs her eyes with a Kleenex.

  Other women murmur agreement: “a good age,” “good age,” “a good death,” “good,”—the words whispering from dim corners of the room.

  The woman who had spoken first leans towards Lav, “I'm Mavis Fifield. You be one of the Andrews crowd then? Down from St. John's, I s'pose?”

  Lav nods. The woman, eyes bright with expectation, waits. When nothing more is forthcoming she says, “Your father must be Clar Andrews—the one teaches in at the university?”

  Thinking her breath must smell of whisky Lav tries to answer the woman without turning her head, “No, no my father's name was David—he's passed on.” Lav is astonished at the words “passed on” which rise unbidden—from where? Tribal memory?

  Her eyes having grown accustomed to the dark, she sees that most of the women hold teacups. She longs for tea.

  “You're David Andrews girl! Well I never!” Eager to be the first with this astonishing news, the woman leans across to pat the knee of the woman seated on Lav's right, “Hear that Ruby? This one's David Andrews' girl!”

  “David's girl!” Tilting her head to one side so that her round face folds into chins, Ruby squints at Lav, “Lord bless us! Sure I can see it now—she got the Andrews' mouth.”

  Once again the echo, louder and more cheerful this time, circles the room: “Yes, I can see,” “Well I'll be,” “David Andrews' girl.”

  “He was that handsome when he was young. Didn't you walk out with him one time, Violet?” Lav cannot see the woman addressed or the one asking the question, both sit beyond the coffin in the far, dim corners of the room.