Each Man's Son

by Hugh Maclennan

  After Red Willie had disappeared Alan came out of hiding and walked boldly over to the carriage, hoping Mrs. Ainslie might see him and come out again. But the surgery door remained closed. He studied the ground where the scuffle had taken place, and then turned to follow Red Willie down the drive, trying to figure out the meaning of what he had seen. Apparently Red Willie thought it was all right to kick a little man but wrong to fight one. It must be very bad to be small. He looked down at his own legs and wondered how long it would be before they grew heavy with bone and muscle. Someday they must be like his father’s. At the edge of the road he saw a stone like the one Willie had kicked and he swung back his leg and let go the way Red Willie had done, but when his toe hit the stone he had to suppress a yelp of pain. Why was it that nobody thought much of Red Willie, though a lot of people were afraid of him?

  When he reached the main road the first of the men were coming back from the mine. All the way up the road he met them walking with black faces and staring white eyes, their lunch pails under their arms with the gray metal showing through in the spots where the paint had been rubbed off. His house was still empty when he got home, so he sat on the front step, feeling very tired and a little queer, and drew pictures in the dirt with a twig, watching occasionally as a woman brought out a washtub to scrub the coal dust off her husband.

  Angus the Barraman waved when he reached his own house, and then he came over and sat on the steps beside him, his face and hands still black and his eyelids red.

  “There iss hell in my legs today, Alan. Where iss your mother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She whill be home soon, howeffer?”

  Again Alan said he didn’t know, and Angus the Barraman took out a plug and bit off a chew. He looked down the road and saw two of his own boys chasing each other around the house.

  “My kids iss making so much noise I ought to get up and beat the hell owt of them, but I whould sooner sit here a bit.” He chewed ponderously for a minute. “We ha? heard your father comes back to town soon,” he said finally.

  Alan looked at the dirt and continued to draw pictures.

  “We ha? heard also that he does not come home at all.”

  Still Alan said nothing and Angus continued to chew, breathing through his nostrils like a dog and stopping occasionally to calculate whether or not he had worked up enough juice for a worthwhile spit.

  “Mr. MacNeil?” Alan said. “Could Red Willie MacIsaac beat my father?”

  Angus the Barraman’s eyes made two white circles in his black face as he stared at Alan with apparent lack of comprehension.

  “Could he kick the guts out of my father, Mr. MacNeil?”

  Angus’s shoulders began to shake with amusement. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said. “But that iss so funny you do not even know the beginnings of how funny it iss.”

  Alan began to laugh too. “Then you mean Red Willie isn’t telling the truth when he says he can beat my father?”

  “Och!” said Angus. “Och now, but that whould be fine! By Chesus, I whould like to see Red Willie drunk enough to try, and then we whould see how far he whould bounce when your father let him ha? the right cross.”

  Alan squirmed with pleasure. “What is a right cross?”

  “It iss your father’s favorite punch. After he makes hiss man drop hiss guard with the cleverness, he giffs him the right to the side of the jaw or to the face maybe, and when he lands it good that iss usually all there iss to it.”

  Alan was feeling more lighthearted every moment. “Then my father is still the strongest man in Cape Breton, isn’t he, Mr. MacNeil?”

  Angus turned slowly to feel Alan’s biceps. After his fingers had probed the frail muscle, his face became solemn and he shook his head.

  “You whill ha? to grow like a son of a bitch to be as strong as your father.” He took his fingers from the biceps and felt Alan’s head. “Maybe you whill ha? the big brain, like the doctor.”

  “But is my father the strongest man in Cape Breton, Mr. MacNeil?”

  Angus thought this over for such a long time that Alan was beginning to believe he had forgotten the question. Finally he squeezed his chew into the side of his left cheek and let go a squirt.

  “There wass Captain Livingstone from Boulardarie,” he said, “who wass so strong that once when he wass buying a suit of clothes in the Boston States the man in the store asked wass they too loose, so Captain Livingstone swelled out the muscles of hiss back and shoulders and burst every seam in them just to show a little of what he could do.”

  “Is my father stronger than that?”

  “Whell now, in the muscles he iss not. He might beat the captain with the clefferness, but the captain iss dead now, so who knows?”

  “If the captain was so strong, why did he die? Did somebody kill him?”

  “Whell now, nobody effer told me abowt that, Alan.” Angus scratched his head. “I would not be surprised howeffer if he was drown-ded. Maybe he wass drown-ded and the Jamaica sharks ett him. They tell me them sharks off Jamaica hass bites so big they can bite the head off you.”

  Alan looked down in the dirt and began to scratch a skeleton while Angus the Barraman chewed steadily beside him.

  Then Alan said, “Mr. MacNeil–what happened to my father last night?”

  “Och!” said Angus, and began to squirm in his pants. “What whould you be asking a question like that for?”

  “You were talking about my father this morning. I heard you.”

  “Och, and what iss talk? Och, now! It iss what I said beforehand moreoffer–there wass dirty tricks in Trenton on Friday night. Withowt the dirty tricks–och, there whould ha? been no question at all whateffer abowt it. But don’t you be asking me any more abowt that, for I ha? promised your mother I whill not say.”

  Alan kept after him. “Mr. MacNeil–what are dirty tricks?”

  “Whell now, I did not promise her I whould not talk abowt that. So listen and I whill tell you. There iss all kinds to them. But suppose you wass fighting a fella and you hit him in the balls–that whould be the dirtiest trick you could do.”

  “Did a man hit my father like that, Mr. MacNeil?”

  “That I do not know for sure, but I ha? my ideas on it. But I am not going to talk any more abowt your father, Alan, so be a good little bugger and don’t ask me.”

  At last Alan’s face broke into a smile. “Without the dirty tricks, is my father stronger than anybody that ever lived in Cape Breton?”

  “No,” said Angus the Barraman decisively, “he iss not, and you can’t blame him for it, eether. For nobody that effer lived anywhere wass so strong as Angus MacAskill of St. Ann’s, who wass four hundred and twenty-five pounds of bone and muscle, and wass so strong he did not ha? to fight at all to prove it. MacAskill was so strong that Queen Victoria her ownself invited him all the way to her palace in London just to ha? a look at him, and when he wass finished with walking up and down before her, she had to buy herself a new carpet to make up for the holes hiss heels had cut into the old one.” Angus the Barraman shook his head solemnly. “But what he did there wass nothing to what he did right here in Cape Breton, for the Queen wass a lady, and it whould not be polite for MacAskill to show off to a lady what he could really do.”

  Angus stopped to let go a long spit.

  “He showed it once and for all the day the Yankee sea captain put into St. Ann’s for water and boasted there wass stronger men in the Boston States than they wass in Cape Breton.”

  Angus stopped again, and for nearly a minute Alan waited for the story to continue. Angus shifted his cud. Then he took out his plug and bit off another chew and settled himself.

  “You see, Alan, it wass like this. MacAskill wass so gentle he whould neffer be the one to start anything. It wass the sea captain that started it, for when he saw the size of MacAskill he began to laugh.”

  Again Angus paused, and worked hard on the dry tobacco until he could feel the slime beginning to grease his gums.


  “What did MacAskill do?” Alan said.

  “There iss men here that saw him do it,” said Angus the Barraman, “and if you do not believe me, you can ask Big Alec McCoubrie.”

  “But what did he do, Mr. MacNeil? What did MacAskill do?”

  “Whell now, it wass yourself that asked me.” Angus let go another squirt. “When that sea captain laughed, the giant did not think it wass funny at all. So he stood up and he looked across the bay and measured the distance, and the bay wass so wide not even a rainbow could cover it. Then MacAskill put owt his hands, and he picked that sea captain up, and he bent over and he pointed hiss ass across the bay like a big gun, and nobody effer saw the like again of what happened then. For MacAskill fired such a blow owt of hiss ass that the sea captain sailed most of the way across the bay, and he landed with a big splash in the water right in front of Englishtown. He whould ha? gone all the way across moreoffer and busted hisself on the beach, but MacAskill wass such a nice man he did not want to hurt him.”

  Angus the Barraman began to laugh and slap his legs, but the moment he hit himself he winced and groaned.

  “Keep owt of the pit when you grow up, Alan. It iss fine work when you are young and your own boss, but it puts hell into your legs when you get old. By Chesus, if there iss not a strike soon I do not know what I whill do whateffer.” He got slowly to his feet and began to rub his back and his eyes showed white in his coal-black face as he stared down the road. “Whell now, and here iss your mother!”

  Alan jumped up to look and saw his mother coming down the road with Mr. Camire. He could see that his mother was happy again and it made him want to laugh and do something to show Angus the Barraman that he had never really been worried at all. His mother was smiling as she talked to Mr. Camire and the Frenchman was carrying his guitar in its case. That meant he would stop for supper and there would be songs.

  “Don’t you think it would be fun, Mr. MacNeil, to be a Frenchman and play the guitar?” Alan said.

  “Some of them foreigners iss clever little buggers,” said Angus the Barraman. “But the trouble with them iss, you can’t always believe what they say.”

  Alan’s mother and Camire came up and asked Alan what he had been doing all day and then they began to talk to Angus, but Alan wanted his mother to himself. He pulled her skirt until she followed him into the house, leaving the two men outside.

  “Mummy, Mr. MacNeil said that Father might be coming home.”

  She turned her back while she took off her hat and laid it on the parlor table. Then she turned back and looked down into his face. With an impulsive movement she put her hands on his shoulders and held him.

  “Alan dear, maybe he comes and maybe he does not. Now we do not know any more.”

  In a small voice, muffled by her dress, he said, “Is Father dead like Mr. O’Connor?”

  “Of course not.” She thrust him away and he looked up at her and saw that her eyes were smiling. “Your father is alive and well. Now then, go out and talk to Mr. Camire while I fix the supper. It will be a fine night after all. You will tell me all about what you have been doing today and after supper Mr. Camire has promised to sing for us.”

  Nineteen

  LONG AFTER it had grown dark that night Alan lay in bed with his eyes open listening to Louis Camire downstairs singing French songs to his mother. He had been at it for hours and Alan wondered when he would stop. He was less sure than ever if he liked Mr. Camire or not. Part of the evening had been fun. Mr. Camire had brought a bottle of red wine and he had talked about strange countries. There was a city in Italy, he said, where the streets were made of water and people went from house to house in boats and every night there was music and singing from the balconies. There was no coal anywhere in Italy and nothing was black in the whole country except the hearts of the rulers. There were mountains in Italy with snow on their tops in the summertime, and below the mountains were green hills covered with olive orchards which turned gray whenever the wind blew the leaves backward. On the plain between the hills and the sea there were trees with walnuts and oranges on them. If a man was hungry he could pick the walnuts and crack them in his palms and eat them, and if he was thirsty all he had to do was to reach over a stone wall and pluck an orange from a tree. At least, that was all a man need do, Mr. Camire said, if it were not for the police, but soon there would be no police, for there was going to be a revolution in Italy and the rulers were going to be hanged because they had kept the people hungry. Mr. Camire said that the wealth of the world was like a pie. There was plenty of pie but only a few people were cutting it and of course they cut all the big pieces for themselves, but when the rulers were hanging from the lampposts there would be plenty of pie for everyone. Alan wondered if this was true, and he was not sure who a ruler was and had no idea what a revolution was, but he hoped that nobody would be hanged in Broughton. He fell asleep remembering Angus the Barraman’s warning that it was not safe to believe everything a foreigner said.

  He woke up later, how much later he did not know, and heard Mr. Camire’s voice talking very loud downstairs and his mother speaking much more quietly. Alan sat up in bed, listening.

  “No, Louis, Alan is upstairs and he must not be ashamed of me.”

  “Name of God–ashamed! It is natural and it is necessary.”

  “It would not be right now.”

  “There is always something. First it was your ’usband. Now you think he will not come home, so now it is the boy!”

  “I am all he has, Louis.”

  “So! Then you do not like me!”

  “But you know I do.”

  “The first time I saw you I said to myself, That is my girl.” Alan could hear the sound of muffled movements. “Now I want my girl.”

  “Please be quiet, Louis.”

  “Why? Why not? We both want it.”

  “Who can have what he wants? Isn’t that always the way?”

  “Nom de Dieu, who told you that?”

  “Please, Louis–not so loud!”

  Camire’s voice dropped, but only slightly. “Why do you drive me crazy? You look at me and it means only one thing when a woman looks that way. And then you say no! What is the matter with you that you are not honest?”

  “Louis!”

  Camire’s voice dropped low, Alan heard his mother speak again, and then he heard the sound of the front door closing. He hunched himself up in bed wondering if he could hear his mother crying. A few minutes later he heard her in the parlor, then she shot the bolt in the front door and then the stairs creaked. As her steps mounted slowly he snuggled down under the covers and pretended to be asleep. When the bed tilted and he knew she was sitting on the side of it he opened his eyes.

  “Have you been awake, Alan?”

  “No, Mummy. I just woke up now.” He felt very bad about telling her a lie, but he knew she would feel worse in a different way if he didn’t.

  “Have you been asleep all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and he knew she was glad to believe him.

  “Is anything the matter, Mummy?”

  He felt her small breasts strain against him as she held him and he wanted to struggle free, but he was afraid she would be disappointed if he did.

  “It is hard when you are older, Alan. Sometimes everything gets mixed up.”

  “Does Mr. Camire get mixed up?”

  She let him go. “Sometimes. But he is more sure than most. And he likes us very much. More than some people do.”

  “Everybody likes you, Mummy.”

  He could see that his answer had disturbed her, so he tried to change the subject. “Do you like Mr. Camire?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Dr. Ainslie doesn’t.”

  “I know.” She was troubled again. “But the doctor does not know everything. Poor Louis has had a hard life. In France he had a fine education and when his father dies he will have a business in France all his own, and then he will show everybody what
he is.” He saw the smile return to her lips. “It must be beautiful in France. People don’t fight with each other like they do here. I should think maybe we can go there someday.”

  Long after she had left him to sleep Alan thought about what she had said. It was the first time he had ever heard her talk about going to some other place. At school the teacher had told them about boys from Cape Breton who had gone away from home to the States and become famous. But Alan did not want to go away from home. He wanted his father to come home instead so he could see him fight and watch people pay money for a prize and then read about how famous his father was in the papers.

  Twenty

  THE WEEK END PASSED, Monday and Tuesday followed, and Margaret discovered that a sudden lull had fallen in Daniel’s practice. There were no night calls, no operations and fewer people than usual came to the surgery. Sometimes it happened that way.

  There was also another thing Margaret noticed. Daniel seemed almost frightened by this rare opportunity to rest and enjoy himself a little. With less work at the hospital, he made more work for himself at home. The moment dinner was over he went into his study and plunged into Homer. When she asked how the translation was coming along, he accused himself of stupidity and said he would never be able to finish his self-appointed assignment before Christmas. It was then that Margaret understood how deeply worried he was about something he was keeping to himself. His eyes told her that he longed to talk to her, but she knew him well enough to be aware that his Highland nature was probably deceiving him about the nature of whatever might be troubling him. She even sensed a measure of hostility to herself, though she was sure Daniel was unconscious of it, for in little things he was more solicitous than usual. He asked if she wouldn’t like to take a holiday with her sisters. He tried to persuade her to go to Halifax for a few days to buy herself some new summer clothes. He even talked of getting a girl to help her in the house, though she had assured him long ago that without children she preferred to manage both the house and the calls alone. Meanwhile the lonely, longing look in his eyes remained, and Margaret wondered how she was going to find a way to help him.