Somewhere I Belong

by Glenna Jenkins

  On Friday morning, we awoke to a frigid cold that swept in from the north and settled all around us. Larry and I pulled an extra layer of clothing on under our coveralls before heading to the barn.

  “It’s torture out here this time o’ the mornin’,” Uncle Jim said, as we hurried across the frozen yard. This time he wasn’t laughing. “I’ll be runnin’ you fellas to school today—they’re callin’ for a storm.”

  A chill breeze chased us across the yard. The clouds that gathered on the horizon looked like a snow-capped ridge of mountains.

  The barn felt colder than the outdoors. Ice crystals had formed on the walls and the beams. Steam rolled off the animals. Their breath condensed in thin puffs of translucent cloud. We moved quickly through chores so we could get back to the warm house. We fed the horses their grain and laid down extra bedding and hay for them and for the cows, even though we knew we would be coming back later that afternoon. Uncle Jim hauled in the usual amount of water as any extra would freeze.

  After breakfast, Larry and I helped Uncle Jim hitch Lu and Big Ned up to his box sleigh. Helen climbed up onto the front bench and disappeared under a buffalo rug. Larry and I settled in behind her and covered ourselves up too. Those rugs were stiff and cold, and they smelled of must. But they covered us from head to toe and blocked the bitter wind. Uncle Jim climbed onto the bench next to Helen, slapped the reins, and hollered, “Gee up!” Larry and I planted our boots on the floorboards to steady our bench. Big Ned and Lu leaned into their traces and hauled us across the yard.

  We picked Thomas and Pat Jr. up at the end of the drive. Uncle Jim slowed the horses at the Daleys’, but there was no one in sight. Further along the road, Maggie MacIntyre picked her way down the path from her house. Snow blew in thin wisps across her yard. It stuck to her tam, her coat, and the thick woollen socks she wore over her shoes. When we reached the open gate of her drive, Uncle Jim whoa’d the horses. He climbed over the side and handed Maggie’s books up to Larry before helping her aboard. She was no sooner seated, than Helen started jabbering.

  “Do you want to come over after school? Uncle Jim’s coming to get us. We could—”

  “Today wouldn’t be so good, little missy,” Uncle Jim cut in. “If the weather gets nasty, I’d just as soon keep the horses in. You girls can get together another time.”

  Even when he was being practical, my uncle was nice about it. But Helen just stuck her nose in the air and pouted the rest of the way to school.

  Old Dunphy was at the blackboard, preparing our math test as we entered the classroom. When he finished, he waited while we hung up our jackets and found our seats. Then he led us through the Our Father and “God Save the King.” This time, I got all the words. We sat down, and he picked a pile of foolscap off his desk and signalled to Curtis Murphy.

  “Hand these around, would you, Curtis—there’s a good fella,” he said, in an even tone.

  Curtis laid a single sheet of foolscap on top of each desk. Old Dunphy folded his arms and stared across the room. “I don’t suppose I should bother asking where the Daleys are. And does anyone know whether Mr. Condon plans to attend today?” He was referring to Johnnie Condon, a ninth-grade boy who hung tight with Patrick Daley. When nobody answered, Old Dunphy let out a sigh. “They seem to come down with some affliction every Friday. I’ll be letting their parents know they’re writing Monday, just the same. Report cards are due in a week.” He looked up at the clock. “You can start now.”

  The math looked way simpler than the lessons we had been doing over the past two weeks. Even Maggie easily solved the twenty-five lines of rudimentary fractions that constituted our test. I copied each problem as neatly as I could and quickly completed them, making sure not to skip a step. Then I checked them over. When I had finished, I kept my head down and pretended to work. Any idleness could have meant an invitation for Old Dunphy to saunter toward my desk.

  We ate lunch inside. When it was over, Old Dunphy grabbed a pile of foolscap and asked Larry and Pat Jr. to hand each one of us a sheet. Then he stood at the edge of the platform, his glasses perched on his forehead, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk selecting its prey.

  “I’d like everyone to write with a pen this afternoon—it’s good practice. And you’ll be marked on neatness as much as on content, this time. So pay careful attention to your penmanship.”

  He stood and waited for everyone to be seated and for the last desktop to close. Then he slapped his pointer onto the blackboard. “Grades five to nine, you’ve two choices: The first one is, you’re the father of a family of six and you’ve lost your job. Write to Premier MacMillan, ask him for a job on a government project in Charlottetown, and explain why you need it.

  “You could start by telling him how much education you have—what grade you’ve completed. Then you can tell him about any work experience you might have and what you think you’d be good at. Then tell him about your situation. Try to put yourselves in your father’s place. What would he say to the premier? Remember, there are lots of men out of work on the Island and not so many jobs to go around, so you need to be convincing.”

  He stepped away from the blackboard and held his pointer up in both hands. “Your second choice—and I particularly want the grade nines to tackle this one—is to write a letter to Prime Minister Bennett. Tell him about the dire situation on Prince Edward Island. Explain how many farms are going out of business—yes, a farm is a business—and how important our farms are to the nation. It’s always best to begin on a positive note. So you should start by thanking him for the assistance he has already sent. Then you could remind him of the shipments of produce and feed we’ve been sending to the Prairies for free. So we’re doing our bit for the nation, but if we want to continue to do so, we’re going to need help. The thing you should keep in mind is that Prince Edward Island is the smallest province in Canada, which means we don’t have much say in Ottawa. So this will take some convincing.”

  He put his pointer down, took his glasses off, and leaned against his desk. “The thing I’m looking for is the way you approach your topic, be it the letter to the premier or the one to the prime minister. I want to see that you’ve been reading at home and paying attention in school. Show me that you know what you’re talking about. Remember to write an outline—I don’t want your argument going all over the place. And write it in letter format. I’ll jot the addresses on the board.” He waited momentarily. “Are there any questions?”

  Pat Jr. raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Giddings.”

  “I thought we were writing a letter, sir.”

  “Didn’t I make that clear?”

  “First you said it was a letter, then you said it was an argument. Does that mean I’m supposed to argue with the premier, sir?”

  Mr. Dunphy let out a breath and brushed his fingers through his oily hair. “I did say you were to write a letter, yes. But an argument, in this sense, is a discussion. So you are to discuss the issues with whomever you choose to write to, be it the premier or the prime minister. The argument part of it is when you give him the facts and tell him your story. You’re to set all this up before you make your request. The argument gives the person you’re writing to your point of view; it makes the case for your side of the issue. Are we clear on that now, Mr. Giddings?”

  I had never heard Old Dunphy give anyone such detailed instructions. And I wondered what it was that had made him look so nervous. Whatever the case, Pat Jr. did not appear to have been taking advantage.

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he replied.

  “Anybody else?” Old Dunphy asked. He looked up at the clock—it said 12:30. “You can pick up your pens and begin.”

  I read through the questions on the blackboard. The first one looked easy. I knew something about the unemployed because it had been all over the newspapers back home. It comprised a major part of my parents’ conversations at the dinn
er table and in the parlour.

  I remember my dad poking his head up from the Everett Leader-Herald one evening, and saying to Ma, “Is there no end to it? There’s so many men out of work.” He cupped the bowl of his pipe in a hand and sucked in the smoke. Then he blew it out in a great puff and watched it thin out across the parlour. “I feel a little guilty sometimes, particularly when I see men lined up at the manager’s office at the plant, begging for a day’s work. Most of them look as if they haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. It’s tough walking by them, especially on pay day.”

  My dad was always talking about the problems in the community, trying to figure out ways to solve them. He spent most Saturdays volunteering at the church. Larry and I often went with him and helped put packages together for families whose fathers were unemployed. When we were done, Dad reminded us that we weren’t to mention any names.

  “You work hard, Joe,” Ma had said. “You earn your pay.”

  “Yes, well.” He thought for a moment. “There are men injuring themselves on purpose so they can get into the hospital for a bed and a meal. They’re eating pigeons, for heaven’s sake. It’s a crying shame is what it is.”

  “We do what we can,” my mother replied.

  “I suppose.”

  Two weeks later, my dad was dead.

  I opened my desktop and rummaged around for my pen, ink, and blotter, and put the ink bottle in the holder. I opened my scribbler to the middle, loosened the staples, and tore out a piece of scrap paper. I looked up at the blackboard and re-read the questions. I knew a little bit about Prince Edward Island from the conversations I’d heard around the kitchen table at Granny’s and from listening to Pat Jr. and Thomas on the way to school. But if I had to put myself in my dad’s place, like Old Dunphy said, I’d be six feet under in a plot in Holy Cross Cemetery back home. So I decided to pretend I was Ma. She had work experience from before she met Dad. And now she had four kids and a dead husband. Surely that was a good argument for a job.

  I dipped my nib into the ink and dotted it onto the blotter. I wrote the topic across the top of the page. I wrote the date, my name, and my address on the top right-hand corner and the premier’s name and address on the left. I shaped my letters as carefully as I could. I did this all with my right hand, trying not to go too slowly. Then I thought about the stories Ma had told us about the Island from when she was a girl. There was the one of when she went to Boston to find a job; the one before she met Dad.

  March 25, 1937

  Martha Jane Kavanaugh

  The Lanigan’s House

  Northbridge Road

  Creed’s Creek

  Prince Edward Island

  Mr. Premier MacMillan

  Government House

  Charlottetown

  Prince Edward Island

  Dear Mr. Premier MacMillan:

  I have just returned home from Everett, Massachusetts, and I am writing to you because I need a job. I am good with numbers and I have work experience as a bookkeeper. Here is my story:

  I finished grade 9 at Northbridge Road School in 1914. Grade 9 was the highest grade in our school. To finish grade 12 you had to go to Charlottetown and pay room and board. I couldn’t go because my parents didn’t have the money. Even if they did, they would have sent the boys because that’s what farm families do.

  When I finished school, I helped my parents on their farm. It was hard work and I didn’t get paid. I looked after the laying hens, the chickens, and the turkeys. During planting and harvest, I helped with the milking. I got up at sunrise and worked until dark every day.

  When the war started, my mother and I volunteered with the Women’s Institute on Saturdays. We put packages together for the soldiers that were going overseas. Things got rationed during the war, things like flour and sugar and gasoline. At breakfast, I got a single sugar cube and I had to decide if I wanted it for my tea or for my oatmeal. Oatmeal doesn’t taste too good without sugar, but neither does tea. I missed the flour because I loved to bake and you can only bake so much if you don’t have very much flour. Sometimes we traded eggs or butter for more flour so we could bake our bread. Nobody missed the gasoline because we didn’t own a tractor anyhow. And the only automobile on our road belonged to Father Mullally. But when you add rationed sugar and flour to all of that hard work, you can imagine that it wasn’t much fun.

  One day, I got a letter from a cousin in Boston. She said there were lots of jobs there because of the war, even for women. My cousin told me the Gillette Safety Razor Company was expanding their factory in South Boston. They made safety razors and blades for the soldiers. She said Gillette had lots of jobs, but not enough men to fill them, so they had to hire women. She said they taught you stuff and they paid the women almost as much as the men. I wanted to get away from all of that farm work and the rationing. Besides, I had never been to Boston and I really wanted to go.

  I took the train and stayed with my cousin, Mary Ellen Lanigan. When I went to the Gillette factory, they hired me right away. As you can imagine, working in a razor blade factory can be dangerous—razor blades being sharp and all. I stayed for a few months, then I saw an advertisement in the Boston Globe about a job at a company called Cabot. They made carbon black for the printing business and they were looking for someone to keep the books. I was good at math, so I thought I would give it a try. It sounded way better than working in a razor blade factory.

  I worked there for two years and really liked it. Then I met a man named Joseph P. Kavanaugh. He worked for the Crandall Dry Dock Company, in Cambridge, building and repairing marine railway slips. He wore a diving suit and a brass helmet with an air hose attached to it because he worked underwater. Before the war, he travelled all over the world for his work with his brother, George. When the war started, he worked for the Navy, repairing ships that were going overseas. When we got married, I had to give up my job. When our children came along, Joe got a job at an oil refining plant. We thought it would be safer than working under water. But a month ago…

  I was well into Ma’s letter and getting to the point where I was going to ask the premier for a job, when a dark shadow fell over my desk. I looked up and saw Old Dunphy staring down at me. I never even heard him coming.

  He put the end of his pointer on top of my desk and nudged it against my left hand. “What’s this?”

  My pen had somehow migrated there. Black ink pooled at its nib.

  “You said we were to write with a pen, sir.” My hand shook. A single drop of ink splattered over my letter.

  “Look at you,” Old Dunphy barked. “You’re making a mess. And what hand are you supposed to be holding that pen in, anyhow?” His voice rose now; his calm demeanour slipped away as his face darkened and he gritted his teeth. He stepped back, and said, “What have I been telling you over and over again? Do you not listen?”

  I looked down at the pen that rested comfortably between the index finger and thumb of my left hand. A second drop of ink pooled at the nib, so I tapped it onto my blotter.

  “I forgot.”

  Old Dunphy shook his head. “You forgot?!” He stepped back and took a breath. “Something tells me I could talk to you ’til I was blue in the face and you wouldn’t learn. Whatever am I going to do with you?”

  My heart pounded. My throat went dry. Beside me, Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her seat and put her pen down.

  Old Dunphy glanced around as if suddenly aware that the room had gone silent. Everybody was staring in our direction. He took another breath, returned the tip of his pointer to the floor, reached down, and grabbed my pen. “Look at the mess you’ve made. You’ll be writing with a pencil from now on.” He picked up my letter and ripped it in half. Then he pointed toward the platform. “Up you go. We’d better fix this now, before it’s too late.”

  I followed him, thinking there’d be another session in the dummy desk, as Old Dunp
hy mounted the stairs. He was calmer now. The colour in his face seemed to settle as his pursed lips relaxed into an easy smile. He pointed to a spot at the centre of the platform, and said, “Stand right there, where we can all see you.”

  He put his pointer down, opened a drawer, and pulled out a long strip of heavy leather. He stepped toward me, holding the strap firmly in a hand. He raised it up once and let it fall onto an open palm. “You know why you’re here, don’t you, Mr. Kavanaugh?”

  I stared at my boots and nodded my head.

  “Tell us, then.” He was looking more at the classroom than he was at me.

  “I wrote with my left hand, sir,” I said, still staring at my boots.

  “Lift that empty head of yours up when you answer me, boy,” Old Dunphy said.

  I did.

  “Now, I want you to explain to me why we don’t write with our left hand.” He grinned across the room.

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come now, Peter James, don’t be coy.”

  So we were back to Peter James. The man turns into a lunatic and my name is Peter James. “Pius James, sir,” I said.

  “Pius James, then.” His face reddened again, embarrassed this time. His eyes narrowed into mean slits. “Tell us, Mr. Kavanaugh.”

  I looked up at him, confused, and couldn’t find an answer.

  “We will wait, then, Pius James.” He practically spit out my name. Smiling. Evidently pleased with himself for finally getting it right. But even Patrick Daley would have gotten it faster. “Maybe it will come to you…eventually.”

  I stared down at the floor and thought hard. Back home no one had ever said anything to me about being left-handed. It wasn’t a big deal. I stared across the classroom and sent a silent plea to where Larry sat, white-faced, biting his lower lip. Then I looked up at Old Dunphy.

  “Hold out your hand, boy.” He raised the strap. “Perhaps my little friend here will jog your memory.”