A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  “I’ll come along with you, but you can do the asking.” John grinned. “After all, you’re the coxswain.”

  “I’m sure the young fella knows who I am.” Watt started pacing the floor. The fading light struggled through the dusty spiderweb over the window. “I knows his folks.”

  “I sees him often. I don’t fish with him or his father, but he knows me,” said John.

  “That’s fine.” Blue rings of smoke rose from the pipe, almost in time with Watt’s precisely placed footsteps. “We’ll go together. We’ll see Croke at the beach in the morning. ”

  When they stepped out into the cool evening together, a gusty westerly smacked them in the face. Watt closed the door to the liver house and the two men headed home.

  only a fool would leave his skiff close to the shoreline when the fishing was over in the fall. Howling gales, strong tides, and winter storms ruled the deep water in Outer Cove then. Boats were no match for the big seas that launched themselves onto the beach. The stages were pitched high upon sturdy black spruce logs, which kept them safe from most rough seas, but all the boats had to be hauled up the road under the bridge, away from the wild winter water. All available men and horses were put to work getting the small boats out of harm’s way.

  “All hands together over here,” shouted Tommy Hickey. “Let’s move this punt out of the way, and get Dan Houston’s big horse hooked up to his trap skiff.”

  “Need a hand over here to get Dan Roche’s punt moved,” joked Mickey Stack. “Come on, b’ys, we could lift that little thing and walk to town with her if we had a mind to.”

  Watt and John found themselves in a swirl of activity.

  “Watt, look over there—the Crokes. When they starts to haul their boats, we goes over,” whispered John.

  The clanging sound of the horses’ shoes and the slapping of the men’s boots on the beach rocks complemented the bustle on the beach.

  “There he goes, with his father,” said John to Watt. The two men lowered their heads and walked toward the Crokes, pretending to be heading home.

  The Crokes and the Smarts were putting fir logs in a boat’s path to help it roll over the rocks. Watt and John joined them.

  “Four on each side, then, haul! Haul!” There was a roar as the skiff slid along the logs toward the bridge.

  “Thank you, John. Thank you, Watt. Glad you came by. Can always use an extra hand at this racket,” said Will Croke.

  John and Watt sat down on Croke’s overturned skiff.

  “You’ve spent a lot of time rowing this big boat, Din,” Watt began.

  “Oh, yes, and many times it was full of fish, too,” Croke said, laughing.

  “Did you ever think about rowing on Quidi Vidi?” Watt put the pipe in his mouth. “You know, give the races a try. I’m looking for a man your size and age to go after the championship next year.”

  Croke sat on the gunwale of a nearby boat and looked out toward the expanse of blue horizon.

  “Mr. Power, would the McCarthy brothers be part of your crew?”

  “Yes, my son. Martin Boland and Jack Nugent, too.”

  Croke was silent for a moment. The gusting breeze sent his hair flying across his striking blue eyes. “Why should I row? Don’t you suffer like a martyr in the races? What’s in it for me?”

  Watt walked away from the young man, then slowly turned back to face him. “Honour for the cove, and honour for you if we wins. There’s some prize money, too, if we break the course record.”

  “And if we don’t win?”

  “We’ll train to win. We’ll train so hard the racing will come easy.” Watt went back and stood next to John and relit his pipe.

  Croke grinned. “If I joins up, who will be the sixth rower?” His eyes shifted from Watt back to John.

  Watt gave him a half-smile and tilted his head toward Whelan. “John will be the sixth man. He’s stroke oar.”

  Croke reached out and grasped Watt’s hand. “Mr. Power, I would be honoured to row for Outer Cove.”

  The November sun broke out from behind the clouds, briefly lighting up the boats, beach, and men.

  * * * * *

  John knew that the blisters on hands and backsides were not the only painful parts of rowing. The people were an even more difficult aspect of the sport—the people in the boat and the people in the crowd on Regatta Day watching the boat. Both had expectations. The meeting at the liver house had been the first small step in the process of making a tight crew. Watt had a long way to go before that process was finished.

  The months leading up to the first practice on the lake were often clouded with doubt. Everything was a gamble. Everything rode on one calculated bet, full of risks: bad weather, a broken oar. People quit, too. “My son, if you can’t take the strain, don’t row.” That’s what John’s father had told him. Still, even with his own headwinds to battle, he couldn’t stay away from the pond. His thirty-six years and his fifteen regattas seemed like two lifetimes. Would he live up to the hopes of the crew and the cove? Was he hanging on too long to the sport he had mastered? Self-doubt had inched its way into his soul.

  If he had moved to Boston or New York, like so many others, would that have severed the cord that bound him to rowing? Perhaps, but he hadn’t moved. He had stayed in the cove. He had never seriously contemplated leaving. His connections to the place were too strong. The sea, Kate, his good friend Watt, they were all part of his constellation in the cove, his world. If life changed, perhaps he would move on. Move clear of the pond. Move clear of that time. For now, at least, he could not untangle himself, mind or heart, from the rowing. He couldn’t walk away.

  Not yet.

  He was not a young man now, but he could still fell the hay in the meadow at the same rate as in summers past. He could go into the woods with a bucksaw for a day in the dead of winter and work and work. Maybe he was beginning to spend too much time thinking about his age, his life. He could see how some people slowed down with time. He couldn’t recall not being able to work at the pace he did yesterday, last year, or five years ago. Perhaps soon his muscles would begin to soften, his speed decline. Seven months from now, would he be able to hold up for one more mile and a half on the pond? He just wanted one more race, one more Regatta Day to do battle.

  He tossed in the bed, slipping in and out of short moments of restless sleep, wishing morning would come. A tiny ray of moonlight broke through the clouds and slid past the curtains, fading into the colourful rug Kate had made last winter. He couldn’t stop thinking, turning again and again on the soft feather mattress, trying not to disturb Kate, closing his eyes and drifting toward sleep, but not reaching it. Count the strokes in the water. Count sheep. His heart was beating too strongly to let him rest. He changed his position again, put his face down in the pillow. Full darkness. He thought of Clements and felt his fist clench. It was not good to hate. He knew that through Christ. He started to count again, the sweeps of the scythe in the meadow this time. At, last he drifted off.

  Chapter

  7

  Mary Nugent was tired of looking out the window. She sighed, peeled the bread dough from her hands, and pushed her knuckles back into the ball. This would be the second batch today.

  Jack suddenly appeared from behind the root cellar and slowing began angling toward the house. Mary continued to manoeuvre her fingers in the dough, her hands now fists that pulverized and flattened the mix. She rolled, turned, and squeezed the dough. Her heart thumped as Jack got closer to the house. The latch rattled and the door opened, letting the cool fall wind rush into the warm kitchen.

  “Jack, you knows I heard about the meeting at the liver house on Sunday night.”

  “But, Mary, I—”

  “Jack, shut your mouth.” She felt a lump in her throat. “I can’t understand why you would go there without telling me.” She tr
ied to swallow to clear her voice, but it only made her eyes water. “You promised you’d tell me if you were asked to row again.” She turned away from him and looked out the window. The fog was rolling over the bog and disappearing into the tall stands of juniper along its edge.

  “I believe I’m pregnant, Jack.” She tilted her head and sniffed back the tears. “You can’t row this year. It’s a young man’s sport.”

  “My God, Mary, not another youngster.” He bowed his head, then raised it again and gave her an awkward pat on the arm. “I’m sorry, my love. We’re young yet, Mary, don’t be bawling.”

  Mary looked at the cradle and raised her fingers to her lips. But it was too late. The baby cried out. She walked over, bent down, picked up the bundle of unhappy sounds, and soothed it against her shoulder.

  “I can row one more year. I can carry the load for you and the children. Rowing in the regatta means a lot to the people in this cove. It means a lot to me. I wants to show those townies what good rowers we are. They thinks we’re only good for hauling fish and getting on the rum.”

  “Jack, I knows you’re not old, and you’re still strong, but you have five mouths to feed. Six, come the summer.”

  “Mary, I’m twenty-seven.” He turned away from her. “Of course I’m not old, for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed his thick black hair with both hands, as if he was about to pull it out. “I don’t know who I can’t stand more, the townies or Neddy Gosse and that crew from Torbay.” He sat down at the table and placed his head in his hands.

  The bread dough, uncovered and cooling, began to fall. Mary put the baby back in its cradle and began to revive the dough, her hands kneading rapidly, her tears falling into the bowl.

  Jack got up and went to her, putting his arms around her waist.

  She pulled away. “Jack, there’s another thing,” she said. “I does a lot of work at the fish. Do you want me to catch them, too? Rowing! What is it with you men and the rowing?” Choking on her tears, she yanked off her apron, threw it over the bowl, and hurried away into the front room. Her husband followed.

  “Mary, I can’t tell you why I want to row. You’d have to row yourself to know. Sure, sometimes it’s harder work than fishing. But I got to do it, for the cove. And for myself. One thing for myself, Mary, is that too much to ask?”

  She stared out the window. The fog was still rolling in across the bog. It looked as though it would keep rolling until the Day of Judgment. “Don’t you get enough of hard work trying to make a living and raise a family? First it’s the salmon, then the cod in June and July. Trawl fishing in September, October. You never stops rowing.”

  “Mary, it’s different this time. We have a great crew.”

  “Jack, I don’t care if it’s God Almighty steering the boat. I don’t want you to row.” She dried her eyes with the yoke of her dress. “Where are you going to get the time, when you’re out of bed at four in the morning going to the traps? In the evening, I suppose, like always—off to the pond to practise.” She shook her head. “Jack, Jack,” she said. Her face was red where she had wiped it with the coarse material. “Jack, tell me what’s different this time. Is there something different for me? What about some help for me with the children? Or is it just different for you? Yes, that’s it, it’s only different for you.” She brushed away a long black hair that was sticking to her cheek. “Tell me to my face now that you won’t ever row again after next year—never again. You made your decision to row, I can see that, and you broke your promise to me. God help me.” She covered her face with her hands and fell down heavily on the old black couch. Its horsehair pricked the backs of her thighs through the worn dress. “Our folks are getting old, we have a young family, animals, a garden. All them things got to be cared for.” The last words were barely audible; her voice had given up, too.

  Jack looked blankly at the floor.

  Mary’s voice was on the mend. The first words were low and hesitant, but the last ones sounded like they came from her usual self. “Now tell me, Jack. What will be so different for you next year?”

  “Mary, I just could not say no. I didn’t row this year, and I thought, perhaps, after a year away from rowing, I could go back and you wouldn’t make such a fuss. I’m still young. I can’t row when I’m dead.” He turned and started to walk toward the kitchen, then turned back to face her. “Watt Power called on me. This will be a great crew, the best crew. I could not say no. He asked me to go with these men, to go with these men for the cove.”

  Mary sighed and looked at the ceiling. A pale stain was making its way across the plaster.

  “We nearly never had a crew. Some of them wanted Bill Pine to row, but Watt refused to take him. He fixed on young Din Croke.” Jack walked back into the room and sat down beside his wife. Her tears seemed to have dried. He took her hand and squeezed it, and after a moment or two she returned the gesture. They held each other’s hands carefully.

  “Jack,” she said, pulling him close, her voice sure again, no more quiet broken words, “sometimes I wish you were a farmer like Bill Pine.”

  He kissed her face.

  Chapter

  8

  Kate was worried about Agnes Slater. She gazed through the kitchen window at Agnes’s distant home as she placed the damper back on the stove and readied John’s morning meal. It had been three days since Agnes had last been outside her house.

  “My son, I thought you’d never wake up!” Kate tossed one piece of dough after another into the hot frying pan until it was full. Salty vapour hung in the house like bog mist.

  The pork fat crisping with the dough stirred John’s appetite. He took the boiling kettle off the stove, put tea in the pot, and poured the hot water in. He kissed his wife on the cheek.

  Kate turned over the toutons. They were a fine shade of brown. “What happened at the liver house?”

  “It looks like we have a fine crew, but there’ll be a lot of strokes between now and the time the regatta comes around next August. I’m sure we have the right men, all the same.”

  “John, I hope you got that message about Agnes to Father Clarke. I haven’t seen or heard a peep from Tommy in two days. Though, I suppose that’s not odd, considering there’s not much going on at the beach.” She shook her head as she took the food from the pan. “Between all the work and all the storytelling that goes on down to the beach, that boy is stuck there like maggots to a rotting fish.”

  “Do you think Tommy would tell us if his mother was worse?”

  “He’s just a youngster. He probably wouldn’t notice.” Kate placed the plates on the table and sat down. She picked up a fork and looked at her husband. “I’m right concerned about her, though. I brought some fresh bread and soup to her and Tommy a few days ago. She sat up in bed and ate a little, but she was miserable. I think she needs more than Father Clarke’s prayers and blessings.”

  John ate the delicious hot food, not taking his eyes off her.

  “Well, did you get the message to the priest or not?”

  “Kate, Kate, of course I did.”

  “You had your rowing meeting. Is that more important than a sick woman with a half-orphan child? Are you going over to Torbay to bring Father Clarke to the cove or am I going to do it?”

  John sipped his hot tea, trying to shake off the last remnants of his deep sleep.

  “Don’t be fussing, Kate. Father Clarke is going to see her today. He promised me he would. He said if he thinks she’s bad off, he’ll get a doctor to the cove. Sure, he’d know whether she was bad off or not, he’s seen hundreds of sick people.”

  “You had better go to Torbay and make sure he comes over. I’m telling you, John, go. Whatever you got planned for today, you can put it aside.” Her voice sounded like a gull’s, high and keening.

  “What are you saying, Kate? That Father Clarke is not a man of his word? Stop fretting, wo
man, he’ll come.” He turned away, mumbling.

  “Don’t call me woman. Go tackle Prince up, or I’ll do it myself.”

  John kept quiet. His throat felt queer. He couldn’t look at his wife.

  “Do you care at all about the child, John? He’s around this house often enough. If she’s taken bad, what will happen to Tommy?” Kate opened the porch door and looked in the direction of the Slater home. “He did have an aunt in town. But I don’t know nothing about that, where she lives, if she’s married.”

  “Now, Kate, he’s not our son.”

  “They’re our neighbours, John.”

  “Father Clarke will see to it that he’s cared for. They have homes for orphans.”

  “Homes? The child don’t want homes, he wants one home. Anyway, what’s the use of speculating about Tommy and his mother? We’re not prophets nor gypsies. We can’t predict the future, and we shouldn’t try.”

  Kate rapped again on the unpainted porch door. A faint puff of smoke rose from the rock chimney and was flattened for a moment to the rooftop by a stray breeze before skittering away. The smoke was more blue than grey, the kind that would burn your eyes if you stood too close to it. She knocked one more time, and then listened hard at the door.

  After lifting the latch and opening the door, she stepped inside the musty porch. An empty coal bucket lay on its side. A ragged man’s jumper hung from a rickety dowel rack. It was if the house had been abandoned. She felt something unpleasantly soft under her shoe, gathered up her skirts, and reached down to remove it. Raising her hand to her nose, she discovered that the porch was also a roost for the Slaters’ hens.

  She tapped on the kitchen door once, a second time, a third time. No answer. Two people should be in there, she thought. What was happening in this house? She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it gently.

  “Hello? Hello, Tommy? It’s me, Mrs. Whelan. I thought maybe you’d like to come up to the house for a bit. Hello, hello? Agnes?”