by Linda Abbott
“Let me see. The supply ship came yesterday, so the next one isn’t for another two weeks.”
Mother Patrick tut-tutted. “I won’t receive a reply for at least a month.”
“Right,” the postmaster said. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Mother Patrick thanked the man and strolled back to the convent.
The following afternoon, mother Patrick waited at Burke’s Cove for Steve Marsh. He handed her a small square piece of paper that contained a brief note. Come to St. Pierre. “Did Father Jean-Claude say anything?”
“No. Just passed me that there paper and said to give it to you.”
Mother Patrick crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the harbour. “You have a passenger for the day after tomorrow,” she said.
“Sorry, Mother Patrick. I wasn’t reckoning on any passengers this time. You’ll have to wait until the next trip.”
“It’s a matter of utmost importance.”
Steve grinned. “Didn’t get enough of the sea air and rough waves the last time, eh?”
Mother Patrick groaned. “I wish that’s all it was.”
Steve rubbed the stubble on his chin and cocked an eyebrow. “All right, then. See you at nine the day after tomorrow.”
Chapter 11
Grey clouds hung low in the sky as Father Jean-Claude stepped out of the rectory. Fog surrounded the island when he reached the wharf, where Steve Marsh’s boat bobbed on the lively waves. Mother Patrick’s face was ashen and covered in sea spray when the priest helped her ashore. She grabbed onto a post for support the second her feet touched solid ground.
“You came alone,” he said disapprovingly. “The mother house won’t be pleased to hear their sisters are taking such chances.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Mother Patrick said. “Besides, it wouldn’t be Christian to subject anyone else to the tortures of the sea.”
Father Jean-Claude looked for his friend’s overnight bag. “I’m not staying the night,” Mother Patrick said. “Mr. Marsh has some business to conclude and will come for me when he’s done.”
“Are you up for the short walk to the rectory?”
“My legs are still on the boat, but I’ll give it a try anyway,” she said, leaning on the priest.
“The mother house would not be pleased with this close contact either.”
“You going to tell them?”
Father Jean-Claude laughed as they moved slowly down the road. The housekeeper had hot tea ready in the den. Mother Patrick sank into a big armchair and gulped down the steamy liquid. “Never thought I’d warm up again.”
Father Jean-Claude offered her a strawberry pastry. “I have your favourite.”
She took the sweet. “My stomach isn’t quite in my throat anymore.” She pinched off a flake. “You could’ve told me in a letter what Maurice said to the child. What’s all the secrecy?”
The priest sat forward and whispered every word Maurice had spat at Marie. “Now you understand why I preferred not to put such information on paper.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Mother Patrick said. “This is beyond anything I could have imagined.”
Father Jean-Claude sat back in his chair. “I am truly sorry, chère amie. The decision, or should I say the burden, to reveal or not to reveal the truth is now in your hands.”
Mother Patrick laid the pastry on her saucer. “I must pray for guidance.”
“Oui,” Father Jean-Claude said. “We will pray together.”
Both bowed their heads. The housekeeper broke the silence a few minutes later when she came for the tea tray and leftover pastries.
A serene look softened Mother Patrick’s face. “Prayer does work,” she said. “I know what must be done.”
“You are a little green around the gills, as you English say, mère Patrick. Maybe you should stay the night. M. Marsh can wait until the morning.”
“I’d only spend the night worrying over how sick I’ll be. Better to deal with it quickly.”
The housekeeper poked her head in the door again. “Monsieur Marsh est içi pour la bonne soeur.”
“Steve was quick,” Mother Patrick said.
Father Jean-Claude accompanied his friend to the boat and wished her safe journey. “I am here if you need my help,” he said. He smiled at Steve. “Take care of my good friend.”
“Count on me, Father,” he said, and started the engine.
Mother Patrick spotted cigarettes and rum stacked neatly at the back of the boat. “I see you’re trading for smokes and swallies, as Nellie would say.”
Steve covered the lot with a blanket. “My son’s getting hitched. Can’t have a proper wedding without a drop of the good stuff.”
“Have you ever been caught?”
“No. My grandpa was once. It taught him to be more careful after that. That’s why I’m bringing my stash to an island near Burke’s Cove. I’ll pick it up tonight.” Steve looked at Mother Patrick. “I’m right sorry about the inconvenience, Mother Patrick. Especially since the sea don’t agree with ya.”
“It was my choice to come. Don’t give it another thought.”
She pulled a small bag of stale bread from her pocket. “This will suffice for the time being.”
Steve chinwagged about his son’s upcoming wedding and the new house near completion for the couple over in Boxey. “Terrible business, the Marion. The community’s so small to begin with; they couldn’t afford to lose any men.”
The day remained sunny as the boat eased over the water. A patch of rocks appeared to the left. “Is that the island?” Mother Patrick asked.
“Right-o, Mother Patrick. Won’t take me long to unload.”
Mother Patrick disembarked with Steve. “Maybe I’ll just stay here for the night,” she said.
“Another thirty minutes and we’re back at Burke’s Cove. You’ll hold out for that long.”
Steve carried the last case of rum to a small cavern. Mother Patrick stared at the stacks of boxes spread over every available space. “Is this all yours?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you fishermen afraid someone will come along and steal it?”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
The holy nun and the smuggler returned to the boat. “You missed something,” she said, pointing to a carton of French cigarettes.
“What’s that noise?” She turned around and saw a large boat chugging toward them. “Blessed Mother of God, it’s the Rangers! You’re in for it now, Steve Marsh.”
The Rangers pulled alongside. Steve winked. “Not to worry, Mother Patrick.”
“Steve Marsh!” a tall, thin man of thirty called down. “I’m coming aboard to . . .” His voice faded to a murmur at the sight of Mother Patrick sitting with her hands folded on her lap. The carton of cigarettes had somehow found a home under her long robes.
She looked up at the young man. “Why, if it isn’t young Willy Burns. I haven’t seen your mother since the family moved to St. John’s. How is she?”
“Very well, Mother Patrick.”
“Are you married, Willy?”
“Two years.”
“Any children?”
“One on the way.”
“Lovely. Your mother must be overjoyed.”
“Mr. Burns,” Steve said, “it’s late. Might I be on me way?”
Willy glared at him. “Go ahead,” he said, and signalled for the boat to move away. Mother Patrick wagged a finger under Steve’s nose. “You were lucky I happened to be aboard the one time you’re stopped by the Rangers.”
Steve grinned. “I don’t believe in luck, Mother Patrick. Do you?”
She couldn’t help but grin as well. “You have quite the head on your shoulders, Mr. Marsh, and you use it well.”
/> “As do you, Mother Patrick.”
Although the sea was calm and shone like a polished mirror, Mother Patrick threw up twice on the return trip.
“A few more crossings will make you a hardy sailor,” Steve said once they docked at Burke’s Cove.
“And make me your smuggling partner,” she added.
Sister Thérèse greeted her superior from a horse and cart, but Mother Patrick waved her on. “Go on ahead, Sister. I’ll walk. I can’t handle any more rocking motion. The good solid earth beneath my feet will do me a world of good.”
“Begging your pardon, Mother Patrick,” Steve said. “I’m going right by the convent. How about I walk with ya?”
“That would be very much appreciated.” Mother Patrick linked her arm through his. “You can help keep me upright.”
“My Lilah would fair faint to see me arm in arm with a nun.”
“We’re plain ordinary people, not supreme beings to be paced on pedestals,” Mother Patrick said.
Steve laughed. “Try telling that to my missus.” The convent came into view. “Here you go. Right to your door.”
Dry toast and tea awaited the fatigued traveller in her bedroom. “This will help your stomach,” Sister Thérèse said. The nun from France suffered from seasickness as well. A loud thump, thump on the front door called Sister Thérèse from the room.
Nellie barrelled into the bedroom and dragged the only chair to the side of the bed. “I just saw Steve Marsh on my way here. He told me you just got back from St. Pierre. Did you discover any news about the Marion?”
“No, nothing like that. Father Jean-Claude wanted to talk to me about a recent personal problem which greatly troubled him.”
“Oh,” Nellie said.
“I’m beginning to believe it’s time to forget about all that for a while.”
“I won’t let it go,” Nellie said. “I can’t.”
“I didn’t mean forget about it forever. Don’t you agree that for now we should put all our efforts into making sure Marie stays where she belongs?”
“Maybe Sheila Jones will put Marie’s happiness first.”
“There’s more of a chance I’ll never be seasick again.”
The nights cooled off toward mid-August. Nellie lit the fireplace and sat in the rocker, staring at Harry’s armchair. Her eyes wandered to the mantel. A package of opened Camel cigarettes lay at the far end. Harry had opened it the night before he set out on the Marion. Nellie couldn’t bear to throw them out. She turned to her husband’s boyish face in the wedding portrait. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, “were you alone or with Tom when the end came? Did you suffer?”
She closed her eyes and imagined how Harry would respond. Never you mind, love. Taking good care of our youngsters is all that matters now.
“I will, Harry,” she whispered. “I promise.” She rested her head on the back of the rocker. The heat from the fire grazed her face. Her lids grew heavy. “I’ll just rest a spell,” she murmured.
The clock ticked, the steady sound comforting, familiar. The fire burned down to embers.
“Ma, wake up.” Sam was shaking her shoulder.
Nellie’s eyes fluttered open. Daylight flooded the room. “Goodness me,” she said. “I fell asleep.” She stretched to loosen the knots in her back and neck muscles. “I’ll get breakfast started.”
Sam smiled, his sky-blue eyes bright. “Can’t you smell anything?”
Nellie sniffed. “Bacon.”
“Marie and Bessie wanted to surprise you.”
Nellie wanted to hug her son but knew she’d embarrass him. “Indeed they have.”
Joe came in from chopping wood the same instant that Sam and Nellie strolled into the kitchen.
“All of you, sit,” Bessie said. “Me and Marie will serve the food.”
Nellie watched the two girls portion out the bacon and scrambled eggs onto each plate, talking and giggling as they did. Harry, she thought, you’re missing the best years of your youngsters’ lives. Yet again, Dottie’s words rang in her head. It’s not fair.
The youngsters finished every scrap on their plates.
“That was gorgeous, scrumptious,” Nellie said. “A grand treat.”
“Me and Bessie will wash the dishes, too,” Marie said.
“Since you two made breakfast, the boys will do them.”
Sam’s fork fell and clanged when it hit the floor. Joe’s eyes bulged out of his head. “You’re not serious. Are you?”
Bessie giggled. “Don’t be so silly, b’y. Ma is joshing.”
Her daughter’s laughter lifted Nellie’s spirits. “After I do the dishes,” she said, “we’ll get the rest of Marie’s clothes and the porcelain dolls from her house.”
“I don’t want to go there any more,” Marie said, and ran outside with Bessie.
“We’re off to Ned’s Field,” Joe said. “Father Curran’s gonna show us how to play football proper. Did you know he was on a school team in Ireland?”
Nellie shook her head.
“After that we’re going to the beach for a swim.”
“Not me,” Sam said. “I hates the sea, since it took Pa and Uncle Tom from us.”
Nellie expected Joe to whip out a sarcastic remark. Instead, he slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Come on, little brother. Father Curran’s waiting.”
Nellie busied herself with the dishes and made the weekly batch of bread, putting aside enough dough for toutons. Finally out of molasses, she decided to visit the general store. Sam wouldn’t touch the fried dough unless it was dripping with the brown, gooey sauce.
Denis Burke came out of the store as Nellie approached. He nodded briefly and hurried on his way. “Oh well,” Nellie said under her breath, “maybe Joe won’t work in the Burke’s fish plant after all.” She watched Denis go toward the Rooms. “There’s always the Young’s plant.”
The general store was empty except for the clerk, Mr. Hodder, a big, quiet man like his son Ron and nephew John.
Nellie looked around the large store. Sweets, medicines, clothes, food, books, and household supplies lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Furniture lay haphazardly displayed on the shop floor. Nellie picked up a bottle of molasses from a shelf by the door.
“Good day, Nellie,” Mr. Hodder said, skimming through a woman’s clothing catalogue behind the counter. “How are you doing?” His son, Ron, had left behind a young widow and five small children.
“I’m doing my best to cope.” Nellie laid coins for her purchase on the marble counter. “Like you and all the rest of the families.”
“At least Susie has me and her brothers to help out moneywise. I’m ordering a fancy hat for her birthday.” He paused. “But John’s missus only has me.”
“She’s luckier than most of the widows.”
Mr. Hodder slid Nellie’s coins back to her. She opened her mouth to refuse his charity. “Please take it, Nellie. Harry and Tom repaired my barn more than once without taking a penny. Let me do this one small thing for them.”
“Just this once, then. Thank you.”
The bell over the door jangled and Ned Noseworthy’s wife came in. She lived in Boxey, and Nellie hadn’t seen her since the church service. She was thinner, paler. Nellie suddenly realized her own clothes didn’t fit as snugly anymore either. The woman exchanged the same artificial smile as every other Marion widow, a smile that didn’t quite make it to the eyes. Grief destroys the body faster than any sickness, Nellie thought. She said hello and left.
She made her way to Annie’s house, which took her by Tom’s place, once owned by Uncle Joe. The saltbox-style home looked forgotten, sad, as if it sensed the owner would never return. Nellie looked away. Previously unshed tears gushed to the surface.
Annie and Dottie puttered around
in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. Dottie wore a determined expression and Annie’s lips were pressed together so tightly they were white.
“Anything the matter?” Nellie said.
“Not a thing,” Dottie said. “Dr. Fitzgerald found me work with a Dr. and Mrs. Williams as housekeeper and cook in St. John’s. I starts next week.”
“It’s too big of a step to take on your own,” Annie said. “’Specially with two infants.” She put the kettle on the stove. “Nellie, help me talk some sense into her.”
Dottie took down three mugs from the cupboard. “Dr. Fitzgerald and his missus are taking me to St. John’s to meet Dr. Williams. They wants to make sure everything goes all right.”
“Aren’t you worried about such a big change?” Nellie said.
“Dr. Williams is an old friend of Dr. Fitzgerald. He’s retired and his wife has awful bad arthritis. She can’t cook and clean anymore.”
“What about the twins?”
“It’s a live-in job and I can keep the twins with me. If it doesn’t work out, I’m to write to Dr. Fitzgerald right away.”
Nellie pulled out a chair. “Annie, you know Dr. Fitzgerald wouldn’t pick out just anybody for Dottie.”
“She should go by herself first, to see how she manages. What a sin to uproot newborns and cart them all the way to St. John’s.”
“I ain’t going anywhere without my youngsters,” Dottie said softly. “There’s nothing here for me. I can start a new life in St. John’s.”
Annie dabbed at a tear with the corner of her apron. “Dottie, I’m an old woman. What if I never sees you or them precious angels again?”
“You and Nellie are family. I could never forget about either of you. Fred’s brother, Seth, is gonna visit as often as he can, to keep in touch with his nephews. Come with him.” Dottie looked at the clock over the sink. “The twins will wake up any minute now and start howling for their milk.”
The young woman walked out of the kitchen.
“I’m some worried about her,” Annie said.