by Paul Almond
“Dearest Winnie,” he said as he came around to sit facing, “whatever is the matter?”
She wiped away her tears and looked up with those large, expressive eyes. “They’re throwing me out.”
Jim sat back, stunned. “But why? Whatever happened?”
She shook her head, and more tears came.
“What is it Winnie? Please tell me,” he said in a voice that almost broke. He reached out to take her tiny hands in his rough fingers.
She cleared her throat. “The last while, they raised me taxes. So I put off paying. Finally, they came and said, I got to pay Monday morning or next week we’re all outta here. I don’t have enough saved.” She looked up. “I got nowheres to go.”
Jim sat silently, wondering. What could he do? It hurt so much to see her cry. “How much do you need?”
“If I give them two pounds, that’ll do. Then in two weeks, I can give them the rest. But they won’t wait. They said, it’s two pounds Monday, or out.”
Thoughts churned in his head. That was more or less what he had saved over the last two months. For his trip back on the steamer — or perhaps, for both their tickets, come spring. He’d been hoping that, once he got up the courage to broach the subject, she might join him.
“Don’t worry, Winnie, I got something. I don’t know how much. But you can have it all. We can’t get you thrown out, now can we? That would mean,” he added lamely, so that it wouldn’t look too pointed, “I’d have to go too, wouldn’t I?” He rose. “You just wait here.”
She watched as he crossed to get his coat and cap and went out into the night, which had begun to snow, lazy flurries. He walked along the side of the house, opened the rickety back gate hung high enough so that it cleared the snow. He crossed to the outhouse and going inside, felt inside the hole onto a ledge where he kept his small purse. He’d been smart enough not to keep it upstairs in the attic, not after he’d noticed his sack had been rearranged, as if someone had been reaching inside.
He pulled out the small cowskin pouch, took out the money in the darkness, and then put back the empty purse. How long would it take to fill that again?
He came out, closing the outhouse door, three steps across the yard, out the gate, down the squared-beam walls of the shack, and in the door again. Winnie sat at the table as if she had not moved.
He sat across from her and reached out his hand. The coins he placed on the table.
She looked at them and then up to him, her eyes still wet. She reached out to clasp the coins in one little hand. As he looked into those big blue eyes, he found himself asking the question he had long been wanting to voice: “Do you love me, Winnie?” he blurted out.
She looked up at him. “With all my heart!”
She said it with such feeling that his head reeled. The answer — he had it now. And even more eloquently than he could ever have imagined. No doubt about it, no matter what, he would remain at her side.
Chapter Ten
Jim walked in, took off his coat, hung it on a peg and turned. Winnie had changed and looked just gorgeous. “I heard you was fired.”
Jim nodded. “How did ye know?”
“It’s all over town. They stopped work on the bridge for the spring. Did you bring your rent?”
“I did.” He paused. “But Winnie, I was wondering...”
“Your rent, that’s all I need.”
He looked at her. No word of consolation? No sympathy? Probably she’s too tense, he decided. But all the same, he felt himself oddly reverting to his former self before this obsession had overwhelmed him. “Winnie, I’ve been thinking...”
“Not a good thing, Jim. Never think too much, not good for you.” He could see a certain hurt starting in her eyes. “Best not to, ever, I always sez. Otherwise...”
“I’m not sure I can stay in Montreal, Winnie.”
“You got to! Them others, they’re going to be out the door, too. I can’t lose all me lodgers all at once. What’ll I do? You’ve got to stay!” Her lip quivered. Was she going to cry again? “Please, Jim.”
He reached out to her, and she came forward with a rush of emotion, but then stopped.
Maybe, like last time, he thought, if she sees my money, it’ll calm her. If she knows I’ve got enough to get us home. Somehow, Jim knew that today was the day of resolution. The Good Lord had thrown him a challenge. Now, he must respond. “Wait here a minute.” He started to go to the door and get his coat.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Winnie. I’m just going outside for a second.”
“Jim, just stay awhile, I made ya dinner. Why don’t we sit and eat together.” She smiled bewitchingly.
Jim looked at her. Was there a note of hysteria in her eagerness? Well, he had decided: calm her down, show her his money, it worked last time. He shook his head, threw on his cap, and quickly went out. Straight down to the yard, in at the gate, over to the outhouse. Reaching into the hole, he found his purse, drew it out. So light? In the darkness, he opened it. Nothing.
His money had been stolen.
He leaned back against the door. How would he get back home now? How could he bring her with him if he had not a cent? How could they manage? Did it mean he’d have to go look for more work? He felt his chest heaving — such a shock. He’d have to think.
Walk a bit first. Yes, that would give him time. The words of his father came back again, “Trust in the Lord.” So he did. He went out the rickety gate, turned down the street in the opposite direction to the house. A ten-minute walk, that would clear his mind.
Who on earth had taken it? One of the lodgers? You never knew who you could trust. He’d find the fella and give him such a beating. But none of them had seen him put his money in there, or go get it. He had always hidden it “when nature called.” Except once. Yes, when he had gotten it for Winnie. He stopped, heart thumping even louder. His Winnie the thief? Impossible. But who else? He turned and headed back.
When he came in, she was busy at her stove. She didn’t turn. “Jim, I’ve got you a real nice dinner. Come now and sit. And we can talk.”
Jim stood looking at her. “My money’s gone.”
Winnie turned with the steaming plate and came across to put it down. “Well, Jim, I’ve a lot of faith in you, you’ll find it and get another job, don’t worry. You’re a strong man, honest, too, I know it won’t be long.” She put his plate down on the table, revealing more of her white body than ever before, and reached out. “Just give me your week’s earnings for the rent, and we’ll sit together, side by side, and have a nice chat.”
“Chat about what? Where my money is?”
“What money?”
“The money. I saved it so we could both leave together. I’m still making that offer.” He stepped forward to take her hands. “Come with me, Winnie.”
She backed away, shaking her head. “But this is my home, Jim. You can’t ask me to leave my home. “
“You may have to leave it, if I go, if all your lodgers go. No more rent. How will you feed Mikey? And pay me the two pounds I gave—” He stopped himself. “Down on the Coast, we’ve got a good house, big enough for all of us, and lots of food. Momma and Poppa would surely welcome you. Come with me. Please, Winnie.”
She stared at him. She seemed about to accept. Then she spoke. “We’ve already talked about that, Jim — it’s not what I want. Now just give me the rent, and we’ll say no more.”
The rent, well, yes, she did need it, if the others were leaving. They’d not be so stupid as to give her rent when that wouldn’t leave anything for food next week. So maybe he should just give her the two weeks. It was actually all he had, these last wages.
Winnie looked at him, as if she knew he was softening. “That’s it, Jim. You stay with me here, we’ll let the others go, we’ll be alone, it’ll be so nice — I’ll make it nice, you’ll see.” She reached out her hand again. “Come along, hand over the rent.”
Jim reached in his poc
ket and took out the money. She did need it. He looked into her wide, blue eyes. They were pleading. But behind them, he sensed a rare steeliness.
He put his hand back. “If you go steal my money, why would I give you more?”
“Oh Jim,” she cried, “you don’t believe that?” And then, as easily as before, she sat at the table and dissolved in tears.
Jim stood without moving. Just how she had done it before. Well, this time, he told himself, be strong. Just wait.
She allowed herself to sob broken-heartedly, and then, oddly enough, rose and quickly wiped her eyes.
“All right, if you’re so smart, keep your rent money. I don’t care, I’ll find someone else, you just watch.” With that, she turned, put on her heavy shawl, and went out into the night.
Jim looked down at his plate. He was hungry. But now, he wanted to know where she was going. Why not follow and find out where she worked?
He grabbed his hat and tore out the door. At the end of Murray Street he saw her hurrying form. He strode after her, buttoning up his coat and winding his grandmother’s scarf around his neck. Winnie turned right, toward the upper level where the better classes lived. He lost her for a while, then turned a corner, and yes, there she was on Mountain Street, still climbing. He followed her across St. Jacques and then St. Antoine, up the hill, until she finally turned in at a drinking establishment.
Now what?
He waited in a doorway, hidden from the gas lighting, while he made up his mind what to do next. So that’s where she worked as a barmaid. He moved off, to keep walking, keep thinking. He did want to see her, just once more, before heading back to the Gaspé. For that’s where his path must now lead. After some anguish, he made himself turn and approach the pub again. He plunged in.
Winnie was nowhere in sight. The pub was crowded with drinking men, mostly well dressed, so he felt decidedly out of place. He pushed through to the bar and ordered an ale. The barmaid looked at him askance, but seeing his coin, pulled him a draft of Molson’s.
He made himself wait while he listened to the mostly military men discussing their sleigh rides. “You know Hugh, poor fellow? He and his muffin ended up in a snowdrift last night...” Their laughter surrounded him. “First time out with a muffin and thought he knew it all. They gave him rather too snappy a horse, I presume.”
As they chatted on, he discovered that “muffins” were girls whom they brought out on sleigh rides for the devilry, mostly travelling over Mount Royal at high speeds.
A flight of stairs at the back caught his eye: a man and another “barmaid” were heading up. He kept watch, and soon another military man came down, buttoning a jacket. What could it all mean? His mind tormented him. A few seconds later another “barmaid” followed — his Winnie, arranging her hair. The man turned back to smile his satisfaction at her.
Jim put down his half-finished tankard and tore out the door. So obvious, what they had been up to. So much, he thought, for the city and its delights, where a woman who tells you she loves you “with all her heart” turns out to be a common trollop.
* * *
His troubles had only begun. He packed hurriedly, head spinning, put on his heavy coat, loaded his pack onto his back and out he went. He should have eaten the meal left sitting on the table and allowed himself a good night’s sleep but he couldn’t wait, couldn’t think of anything but escape. How could he have been so gullible? But then, had he ever known anything like that in Shegouac? Of course not. So don’t be too harsh on yourself, he argued. At any rate, with addled mind and unplanned speed, he set off homeward through the soon-to-be melting snows. Don’t think, just keep going, he told himself, but he felt so jangled inside, so disorganized, his whole balance needed readjusting.
The island of Montreal, some twenty miles across and sixty miles long, sat in the middle of the great St. Lawrence, which had to be crossed at Bout de l’Ile — the way for travellers to Quebec City and points east. Jim left the city ramparts and headed along the well-travelled road. All through the agonizing night he trudged, with no sleighs passing for a ride. His recent revelation kept paining — love always dies hard, he consoled himself, but then, had it really been love? More an infatuation, perhaps, compounded by the unfamiliar way of life. And based, he now decided, on nothing more than glimpses of lovely breasts and flashes of a bare knee as Winnie had laced up her boots of a morning.
Sometime before dawn he arrived at the terminus, an aged wood building with a simple veranda and hitching rail. Already, a young man and wife were waiting there with their two year old, the three huddled against the rough logs. From here, they could dimly see north across the icebound river. Safety in numbers, Jim hoped.
The man looked up at Jim with mournful, pleading eyes.
Jim asked, “What time does the first sleigh go across?”
The man shook his head. “Whatever time, unless someone lends us a couple of pennies, we can’t be on it, we’ll have to walk. Soon as it gets light enough.”
If it’s only a couple of pennies, thought Jim, why not? He knew what it felt like to be penniless. “I might be able to help.”
The man glanced up briefly, then sunk back and closed his eyes. All three were exhausted, Jim could see.
Soon, an older and sick-looking man joined them. He came, sat on the bench and gave a long sigh. Then he broke out in a racking cough.
“Think it’ll be a long wait?” Jim asked, when his eruption subsided. “My name’s Jim, by the way.”
The emaciated man shook his head. “Maurice.” He held out his hand, and Jim shook it. “They start early. Trop chaud pendant la journée. Too hot when the sun, she rise. La débâcle, she come any day.”
“The breakup?” Jim asked. “This sheet of ice is soon going to break?”
The dawn was already rising downriver to their right, as the man nodded. “Pas franchissable pendant des semaines. For weeks, maybe, no boat for cross here. Non, m’sieur!”
Oh no, Jim thought. He couldn’t wait. His week’s salary and modest bonus would not cover that and still be enough for the six or seven hundred miles of slushy roads, buying bread and cheese and the occasional bed. He just had to cross today.
He settled himself for the wait, and soon a clerk turned up who unlocked the door and motioned for them to enter. Once in from the icy night, the group felt better. They sat on rough benches to await the sleigh’s arrival, while the sun made its appearance.
The wait seemed interminable. The older man grew more and more agitated. He glanced at Jim.
“The longer we wait,” Jim muttered, “the warmer it’ll get.”
Maurice nodded, and got up to speak to the surly clerk, who shrugged and then talked rapidly in French.
Maurice turned. “He say, must be too dangerous. No sleigh.”
Jim frowned. “Why didn’t he tell us that when he got here?”
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais, toi?”
“Me? I sure can’t wait around; I’ve just got enough for the trip home. Gaspé, it’s a long way.” He paused. “We’d better walk.” But should they? He remembered the crossing with the canotiers, and how it had traumatized him, giving him bad dreams. Those black waters seemed to hold a special terror for him: could he overcome it now?
The young man rose quickly. “How safe will it be?” He bounced his child, who was just waking up.
“Well, if they’ve been using the sleigh until yesterday, surely the ice’ll be strong enough to hold us today,” Jim found himself saying. And yes, was this not true?
Maurice nodded, and broke out coughing. “But she be dangerous. Très dangereux!” The husband flinched.
Jim noticed. “Since you have that child, maybe you should stay and go back home.” And he should himself, he thought, wavering.
“We got no home. My wife’s cousin, they wrote us from Quebec, we can stay with them. If we don’t go now...” He gestured. “Nothing left to eat, nowhere to sleep, we’ll have to take our chances, too.” Beside, his wife rose and clutched at
him. Jim could see she was terrified.
Well, would he let this superstitious fear overwhelm his good sense? If she was going, why not he himself? “All right then, let’s go.” Jim started for the door, and they all followed him out, stopping to look across the melting ice, a clearer view with the sun climbing over the horizon. A long way to the other shore. Would they make it?
Jim felt frozen but made himself stoop to lace on his snowshoes. Then saw the trail ahead was packed hard. Quickly, he put them on his back, and set off on foot — just do not think about it, he told himself, and in twenty minutes you will be over and safe.
But after they had walked quickly along the trail for some minutes, an unmistakable rumble could be heard from upstream.
Maurice listened, shook his head. “Dépêchons-nous!” He half ran, half limped, with Jim following, the couple and child hurrying behind as best they could.
The rumbling faded. They made good time; the ice seemed firm underfoot. Jim took in the mountains of ice: great slabs, having crashed into others, rose on their sides, forming jagged contours across the whole surface. The track made by the sleighs wound among these great misshapen hillocks.
Jim avoided thinking about what would happen if the river actually broke. Such mayhem. Drowned for sure, all of them.
After about ten minutes, with the older man coughing furiously and the couple falling further behind, the distant roaring enveloped them. Jim looked upstream, but still saw nothing untoward. He glanced at the family: weak from not having eaten, they were all having trouble. Should he wait and give them a hand? They were now in the middle of the river. Beside them, Maurice scrambled up one of the higher slabs of ice to look upstream.
He pointed and then waved: “She start to break, way upstream.”
Jim waved the lagging couple to hurry. They were not doing so well. Quickly he ran back, grabbed the frightened woman by the hand, lifted the child from her husband, and forged ahead. Without his child, the man made better time. Maurice stayed on his pinnacle, obviously wondering: cross? Or run back? As Jim and the couple passed, he pointed. “She come down behind!”