Bishop's Road

by Catherine Hogan Safer

  Bishop’s Road

  “Hope, folly, wisdom. …the book’s point is its picaresque journey, a tumble of overlapping mini-narratives….Life lessons surface and bob like corks on Safer’s buoyant prose.”

  The Globe and Mail

  “…imbued with a feminist spirituality that is humorous, earthy, and big enough to embrace men, women, and Barbie dolls to boot….feisty…unique…reminiscent of Fall On Your Knees in its outlandish - often gothic, and grotesque occurrences, and in its acrobatically poetic prose….those who are open to the nuances of Safer’s quirky mind will keep turning the page…a new sub-genre: Magic Realism from the Rock.”

  Atlantic Books Today

  “…a magical and moving story that eludes description…The novel heralds the talent of a very original voice…a novel of complexity and compassion.”

  The Chronicle Herald

  “Her style is her own, and it is sure, and poetic, with lots of humour and energy and unique phrasings.”

  The Telegram

  “In Bishop’s Road, first-time novelist Catherine Safer has com-posed a love song to St. John’s, Nfld., with lyrics that would make Cole Porter, Stan Rogers—or Ron Hynes—proud.”

  The Daily News

  Bishop’s Road

  by

  Catherine Safer

  ©2004, Catherine Safer

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts

  for our publishing program.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book

  Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP)

  for our publishing program.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced

  or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior

  written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or

  information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing

  to the Canadian Reprography Collective,

  One Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Cover Art: Katherine Munro

  Cover Design: Todd Manning

  Published by

  KILLICK PRESS

  an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING

  a Transcontinental Inc. associated company

  P.O. Box 8660, St. John’s, Newfoundland A1B 3T7

  First Printing November 2004

  Second Printing May 2005

  Typeset in 12 point Garamond

  Printed in Canada by:

  Transcontinental Inc.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Safer, Catherine, 1950-

  Bishop’s Road / by Catherine Safer.

  ISBN 1-894294-78-5

  I. Title.

  PS8637.A44B48 2004 C813’.6 C2004-906589-0

  Dedication

  This one is for Andreae and Jennifer, who are so lovely. For Susie, who read and liked it. For Andrew who said, “Go write something. I’ll bring home the bacon.”

  Bishop’s Road is long enough. And straight. If you walk back and forth every day you’ll lose a few pounds and tighten up but most people around here don’t bother with that. Mrs. Miflin’s boarding house sits between a Catholic Church, with priest’s rectory, and a school - all on their last legs. Now and again the Department of Education threatens to close the school but the parents get upset and have meetings and eventually the talk dies down for a couple of years. The church puts on a brave face but since hardly anyone goes to Mass these days, except for the mid-night service on Christmas Eve, maybe, and during Lent when you absolutely have to, its days are numbered as well. A very old priest lives in the rectory with his equally ancient housekeeper who is terrible for getting on his nerves but makes great bread pudding when she’s in the mood.

  Across the road and down a cobblestone path, the only one left in the city, tucked away behind poplar, maple, birch, aspen and a low stone wall, is what was once an orphanage. It stood empty for years until some enterprising members of the arts community begged it away from the church. The artists are generally happy there except for the ones who work late into the night because no one can get the crying out of the walls and they are thinking of packing up their brushes and going elsewhere.

  There used to be a lot of little nuns around in the old days, teaching in the school and the orphanage. Since the ones conceived in sin would surely have a negative influence on those from proper homes, everyone agreed to keep the children separate back then. With the Word of God on their lips and black leather straps on their belts - next to the Rosary beads - the holy women confused several generations of youngsters for a hundred years or more until they all just dried up and blew away. No one remembers exactly when that happened but surely it was a sunny day with just enough sweet wind to whip through the convent and out the back door with those withered Brides of Christ in tow. Once the dust settled and it became apparent that no one in the world was interested in taking over the duties of the recently departed Sisters of Joy, Mrs. Miflin bought the convent for a song. Rumors of devil worship and torture, orgies and the like, didn’t entice too many prospective buyers among the locals even if they’d had the money, and the fact that it would take a king’s ransom to heat the place kept everyone else away. But not Mrs. Miflin. She had started most of the rumours herself a few years ago anyway, and she doesn’t have the furnace on between April and November no matter what the temperature. How she got the old nuns to cooperate is anyone’s guess but they weren’t gone an hour before she was beating on Father Delaney’s door with her offer to buy.

  Ginny Mustard grew up in the orphanage. And the little nuns tried to hammer things into her soft yellow head. Had her kneel at the front of the room with her nose to the wall for a bit of ridicule now and then. If ever they felt the need for reinforcement they encouraged the other children to find her faults and laugh, though not too loudly, mind, because either one of them might be next - there were no shining stars in Ginny Mustard’s world. She moved from the orphanage to the streets and on to Mrs. Miflin’s house. If she’s not careful she can see the window of the ward where she slept from the front porch in the winter when the trees are bare and so she keeps her eyes the other way until she is down the road and around a corner.

  Mrs. Miflin’s house is big with many rooms, not accustomed to sudden sound or quick movement though it is quite familiar with haunted dreams. The original furniture is still there. In the walls are nooks and crannies holding statues of Mary the Mother of Jesus and occasionally, Jesus himself, wounded and weary. Mrs. Miflin is what you might call a good Catholic. She makes it to Mass every morning. She takes Communion every day. And every Friday, doesn’t matter what that Pope said, there’s fish on the dinner table. For Lent she gives up what pleasure she takes in life and when her feet hurt she complains only a little and would have you believe she offers most of her discomfort for the repose of the poor souls in Purgatory. Kneeling at night, she says a Rosary before her head touches the pillow, no matter how tired she may be.

  Everything is downhill east of Bishop’s Road. It runs parallel to Caine’s Street which overlooks Beaton Row which frowns on Water Street which leans closer to the ocean every day. Connecting the lot are many short streets that you don’t even want to walk on, let alone drive, when it’s icy. Beyond Water Street is the harbour and surrounding it but split at The Narrows are hills. In the morning the sun conies over the one on the left and at this time of year, if there are icebergs about and a little fog, the effect is enough to blind you.

  Once there was a big old building messing up the view but it fell apart and no one had
money to fix it. After a few hard winters it began throwing itself at passersby every time the wind blew hard. Pigeons nested there in droves and the smell was wicked in summer from tons of droppings and ratty old nests and the bodies of their deceased. So the city decided that it had to go and then put it back on their ‘things to ignore’ list until the scavengers had their way with doors and windows and the half-decent bricks and then it was simply a matter of bulldozing the remains into the harbour. The government types who had worked there were long gone to a business park on the outskirts of town where there was enough heat that they didn’t have to keep their coats on all day come December, and lots of cold recycled air for the five or six really hot days you get sometimes in August.

  Caine’s Street has houses all smooshed together and holding each other up. Beaton Row has small shops of first and second-hand books and clothing and what-nots, restaurants and galleries. Water Street boasts offices and department stores and more bars than anyone needs. There is no parking space and most businesses do poorly. Every time you turn around there’s one closing down and another opening up so there’s no point in thinking anything is where you left it yesterday.

  The people who live here are an odd mix. Professors from the university rub elbows with low-life who haven’t held jobs for two generations. They didn’t start out low, mind, but there’s nothing like poverty to bring you to that level after a while. Down here children who have not known want since they were born play with urchins whose only hello for the day is the back of a hard hand across a small mouth. One is clean and the other wears last night’s dinner on her pretty face. Down here is the Women’s Shelter and the Salvation Army Men’s Hostel and the brave souls who don’t care for the rules in either of those places and would rather take their chances outside - thank you very much - until it’s too friggin’ cold to breathe. Even then they don’t put their things away but keep all worldly possessions in garbage bags to save packing when the spring comes around again. Down here are the artists and the fine plays and the music festivals. People who live up town say they would venture down more often if there were some place to park but no one believes it except the ones who say it. When they do show up they don’t really get it and usually bring lawn chairs with arms to the outdoor events so they don’t have to sit too close to the riffraff.

  On the west side of Bishop’s Road things are on a more even keel. The ground is mostly flat and easy to walk. There are a few places where you can get a decent meal of fish if you don’t mind going that far, though if you ever want to see a movie or have some brochures printed there’s nothing for it but to head on out to a mall. The most interesting places, the ones with any expression in their eyes, are here, below Bishop’s Road.

  Ginny Mustard has never been anywhere else in her life and, like most things, that suits her fine. If it doesn’t happen within a fifteen minute walk of Bishop’s Road, it might as well not happen at all. She goes to the river beyond the park. Stands on one of the little bridges that cross it and looks at the water rushing. She likes the storms and the snow as much as she likes calm and sunshine. And the river is as lovely when trees are falling over and their roots coming out of the banks and the wind so loud you can’t hear another thing, as when it is gentle and whispering low and pretty little finches swarm the willows. She goes to the ocean. Watches the ships come and go. Pulls the cold fog and fishy smells deep into her lungs. Holds them there. Closes her eyes and smiles.

  Ginny Mustard has a secret. All afternoon she’s been walking up and down Water Street looking for someone to tell but no one ever comes along who might have time to listen. She’s not good with words. When she does talk at all they fall over them-selves and some are left out so it takes a patient person to know what she is going on about.

  The secret is brand new. She ran it around in her head and tried to write it down when she got bits of it clear. Junior Brophy from Harry’s Groc. and Conf. gave her a load of paper placemats once to draw her pictures on and at the rate she’s going she’ll need every last one of them to write her secret because her letters are big and lumpy and backwards and she can’t get more than a dozen words on any one sheet.

  After cooking and praying, Mrs. Miflin likes cleaning best so Ginny Mustard keeps her papers and coloured pencils between her mattress and box spring, all neat and tidy and hidden. She wears her pen on a chain around her neck along with a medal of the Holy Blessed Virgin and a penny that Joe Snake put on the railway track just before the train came and flattened it thin.

  Ginny Mustard has lived here longer than anyone else except Mrs. Miflin. It used to be a beautiful house but now it’s just pretty enough to get by. That’s what Mrs. Miflin says; me and the house are the same, she says, just pretty enough to get by. She was married once. She has pictures on the walls and a dried bouquet. Her wedding dress hangs in her closet in two green garbage bags stapled together to be long enough to keep the dust off if any dares land. Ginny Mustard has never seen it but Mrs. Miflin tells her all about it sometimes when they wash the dishes. She likes to talk and goes on and on about back in the day when she was pretty and her husband was so good looking and they were young too young to get married. The pictures show that he had a big nose and glasses and was a lot taller than Mrs. Miflin and his arms looked like they might be really thin under his jacket. And in the pictures Mrs. Miflin was round and smiling as though she’d had a good meal of something tasty and her dress was snug on top, but-toned with pearls that wanted to pop off and scatter. Mr. Miflin must have gone away because no one in the house has ever seen him. Mrs. Miflin sets a place for him every mealtime and even puts food there as if he just went to the store for a newspaper or some-thing and she expects him back any minute now. You might think that wasteful but it’s not because when he doesn’t show up she eats his share or puts it in tomorrow’s soup.

  Ruth lives at the very end of the house - third story and beyond the linen closet. Not a lot happens back there so she spends much of her time in a chair at the top of the stairs near a window just watching. She can see across the street and through the trees and across another street and into the park. If she squints she can just make out the bodies lying around on the grass tanning or rusting - depends on the weather - and the little kids playing on the swings and in the sandbox after their mothers pick out the glass and dog shit. They have to do it every day. It’s that kind of park.

  Sometimes Ruth wears the same clothes for a week. She dresses like a bruise. Black leggings and a big black shirt. Purple. Other times she doesn’t even bother to take off her nightgown or wash her face, what would be the point, though she’s very particular about brushing and flossing and her hair is always clean. She has been on the planet for 50 years and is tired of life and so has given up - except for the sitting. Watching.

  Maggie has a room just ahead of the linen closet. It’s the nicest one in the house with a huge bay window and lacy curtains that move about easily. At night she lies awake and watches them float across the room - soft and narrow - like thin ghosts with a floral pattern. Maggie is still trying to figure out how she got here and watching the curtains puts her mind at rest. She thinks that if she lies here long enough she will know what came before and after leaving home and being here in this room, in this house. She remembers a suitcase and lots of screaming, her mother’s face hard before she turned away from Maggie. A big place with little beds. Before that there’s nothing. After that there’s nothing either - until this room, this house.

  At night she puts her pillow at the foot of the bed under the curtains and they wash across her face on their way to and fro. Sometimes the moon is behind them and when they move it shines all over her. Turns her skin a nice pale blue. When it is full she takes off her clothes and looks at her pale blue body. She holds up an arm or a leg to get as much of the light as she can. She likes to see herself that colour and wishes she could show someone how pretty she looks.

  The people whose clothes Maggie wears were old and larger than herself. Her
underpants are lumpy bloomers and her skirts have to be held with a belt - pulled very tight and even then her blouses are generally hanging out and in her way. All of the spare fabric gives her the look of a sausage. If you could see her face you might be surprised to find that she is attractive.

  There is a shoe box under Maggie’s bed containing 118 letters. Sealed. Stamped. Never opened. Maggie brought it with her and goes nowhere without it. She takes it to breakfast, lunch, dinner and the bathroom. Only in her room is it out of sight and even then she often pulls up the bedspread and checks to make sure. She thinks sometimes it isn’t true - that nothing is - and so she pulls up the bedspread and checks to make sure.

  Eve has been alive since God was a youngster. She lives on the second floor - east side - and can see the ocean from her room but mostly she tends the garden out back, a job she hasn’t had since her fall from grace with that fool Adam. She has a knack for growing things but sticks to flowers since the zucchini year when everyone got so fed up with zucchini this and zucchini that every meal for a month because Mrs. Miflin can’t bear to waste anything. Eve is big and strong with no softness to her bones at all. She is generally content but for missing Adam - mostly in February when the days are so gray and the seed catalogues haven’t arrived yet. She’s been six years without him this time - he always seems to go ahead of her - but she enjoys the garden. Every spring when the slugs come crawling, Eve buys a hedgehog and sets it loose. And every spring the newest one munches away for a couple of weeks and wanders off. When Eve is not gardening she wears long black dresses, stiff and silk, with here and there a touch of lace, a cameo, a satin rose. But more often than not she’s in overalls and rubber boots, a red kerchief holding her hair away while she works.