Thanks to the archbishop’s call for parishioners to take in or employ Irish orphans, Michael and some of the older boys had had little trouble finding employment — Michael with a carter. He said he wanted to earn his keep and put money aside for when Da got back on his feet. “It’s a shame you cannot do the same, Johanna,” he said.
“What about Uncle Liam?” I asked.
Michael managed to post a letter, but still has heard nothing and says that he does not expect word for some time, as this is a large country and the distances are great.
The man on the wagon called for Michael, and Michael said he must go. But he told me he would come again as often as he could and that if he found Da, he would get word to me. I hated to see him leave after so short a visit, but there was nothing to be done about it.
When I finished with the wash, I went and asked Sister Marie-France about employment. She said that some of the older boys were finding positions as apprentices and some girls were being put into service. She offered to advertise for a position for me if that was what I wanted. I said I would be grateful.
July 14, 1847
I slipped away again for an hour after I saw Sister Marie-France leave the house. We were supposed to be at contemplation, but I could not stop thinking of Da, and it is easy enough to steal away without notice. I was on my way to the sheds farthest from the road, which I had not yet been inside, when someone darted out and collided with me, sending me flying backward. At the same time, the boy — for it turned out that it was a boy not much older than I — dropped the bundle he was carrying. As I scrambled to my feet, the bundle, which was an old blanket, spilled out ragged clothing, a few bits of ancient cookware, a Bible, a purse … An odd collection of items, I thought. He jumped to his feet and began to cram everything back into the blanket. It was only when I saw him pick up a second Bible that it occurred to me what he was up to.
“You’re a thief,” I said, scarcely believing the words even as I spoke them. “You’re stealing from the sick.”
He shoved everything into the blanket, grabbed up all four ends, and ran.
It took me longer than I would like to admit to come to my senses and to shout after him, “Thief! Thief!” But by then he had disappeared around a corner. I looked around for someone who might help, but there was no one. I went in search of someone in authority. When I finally found a harried-looking man and explained what had happened, he sighed loudly and declared that things would surely be different when the new sheds at Windmill Point were ready. And that was that.
I did not find Da or anyone who knew him.
July 15, 1847
Grandda’s words have been in my head all afternoon and evening. “Be careful what you wish for.” To think I ever believed those words to be nonsense.
I slipped away to the sheds again, feeling emboldened by my success the past two times. Almost as soon as I arrived, I saw the thief who had knocked me down yesterday. He was skulking about outside one of the sheds, his eyes darting this way and that as he no doubt searched for what he could steal. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shouting. Instead, I bowed my head and made my way toward him, taking great care to circle around behind him so that he would not see me coming. I was very nearly upon him when he bent down and lifted what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Nestled in it were a beautifully carved brush and a comb of bone. He slipped both inside his shirt and straightened. That is when I grabbed his arm.
He spun around, his eyes wide at being caught. But when he saw it was me he laughed and twisted loose of my grasp as easily as you please. As he did, a small metal disc fell to the ground at his feet. I looked down at it. My head was spinning as I bent slowly to pick it up. It was then that he chose to run.
I caught the bit of metal in my hand and ran after him, determined not to let him slip away again. Someone let out a shout behind me, but I did not even turn to see who it was. I was too determined to catch the little thief.
He disappeared around a corner. By the time I reached it, he was a small thing at the end of the street and about to vanish again. Still I ran. At each turn I spotted him, only to have him disappear from sight. But I did not give up. I ran until I thought I would run the feet right off my ankles, and as I am taller than he and my legs are longer, I finally caught hold of him once more and this time I held tighter.
I held the bit of metal up to his face and, though I gasped for breath, demanded to know where he had got it.
“Found it,” he muttered — and those two words shocked me more than I can say. ’Twas bad enough he was a thief, but he was also Irish!
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I told him. “Thieving from your own people.”
“I only take from those who have no more use for earthly things,” he said defiantly.
I was about to deliver him a lecture that would have made Ma proud when the meaning of his words struck me like a slap. I held up the small circle of metal dented on one side, the figure on it rubbed almost away, and demanded again to know where he had got it.
“From the same place as I get everything,” he told me.
“And the man it belongs to?”
“Belonged to,” he said.
How those two little words stabbed like daggers into my heart. I asked him to describe the owner, but he could not. So I was the one who did the describing, and the description I gave him was of my da. But still he could not say whether I was on the mark or not. I remembered the first poor soul I had seen and how I could not tell at first if it was man or woman.
“Was he wearing this around his neck on a bit of leather tied in four different places?” I asked, for that was how Da always wore his St. Joseph medal, on a bit of ancient leather that he had not been able to replace and that had broken several times.
The boy nodded.
“And you’re sure he was dead?” I asked.
“As cold as the grave,” was his reply.
I almost collapsed then. It was Da’s medal — no doubt of it. It was his St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters.
He was gone. Da was gone.
I left the boy with his booty and stumbled back to the house, trying hard not to weep the whole way. I let myself in without trying to hide that I had been gone. What did I care about breaking some silly rules? I had not been an orphan when I first set foot in this house, but I entered now as one. Ma was gone and now so was Da.
Sister Marie-France appeared in the door of her office. Her face was sharp as she told me that I had been missed. I think she would have scolded me but for my bursting into tears. She listened to my tale and then had another sister take me to the kitchen to make sure that I ate. She said that she would say a prayer for my da.
July 16, 1847
I waited all day for Michael to visit and at the same time dreaded having to tell him what I had discovered. He did not come. This is not the great adventure I had expected. I wish we were still back home or at least that we had found a place to stay in England. Da was a fine carpenter. We would have found a way, and we would still be together.
July 17, 1847
No Michael again today. I dread telling him my news, but still I wish he would come. He is all I have left.
July 18, 1847
I was on my way up the stairs after mass with some linens this morning when I heard shouting in the front hall. My heart raced at the sound of the voice. I rushed, linens and all, to find Connor all wide-eyed and wild-haired, shouting, if you please, at Sister Marie-France. He had come for Daniel and was in a great temper to find that he had been given away, as he put it, to a farm family.
Sister Marie-France remained calm, although the flash in her eyes told me her patience was tested. She assured Connor that his brother was being well looked after and said, if he wished it, that she would send a message to the family to let them know that he would like to visit. This sent Connor’s temper flaring again, for he did not want to visit. He wanted his brother back. Sister Marie-France was at her gentle best, saying t
hat she understood how he must feel, but that the family who had adopted him had taken him in good faith and now must be consulted. She got Connor to agree to return in a week’s time for an answer.
When Connor turned to leave, his eyes lit upon me and a whiteness came over him. I took it as anger that I had let him down and began to apologize at once. To my astonishment, he rushed to me, took both my hands in his and held them tightly.
“I heard you died,” he said.
“Whoever told you that?” I asked.
“Michael.”
I was sure he must be joking, and said I saw no humour in the jest. But he swore to me that he had seen Michael only yesterday and that he was greatly saddened because he had learned that both Da and I had died.
It seems that Michael had done the same as I. He had gone to the sheds to search for Da. Connor said that he found a man who kept records of the patients, and that it was from this man that he learned that Da and Johanna Leary had died of the fever. The Johanna Leary in the record book had been brought to the shed only two days before Michael’s visit.
“Where is he now?” I asked. I had to let Michael know that I was alive.
But Connor did not know. He and Michael met often in the square not far away, and he said he would look for him there tomorrow. He promised to send Michael to me. When I asked if he had had word of Kerry, he grew so sad that I felt sure the little lad must have passed. But, if anything, the news was worse: Connor did not know if his brother had died on Grosse Isle or if he had survived. If he survived, Connor did not know what had become of him. He planned to go back to Grosse Isle once he had Daniel in hand and the money for travel. He surprised me with a kiss on the cheek before he left, and said he did not blame me for what had happened to Daniel.
After he had gone, I begged Sister Marie-France to let me search for Michael. But I did not know where to find him or the name of his employer. In the end I had to agree to let her look into the matter.
July 19, 1847
What a long and horrible day it was, and what a fine and generous person Sister Marie-France is. She went this morning to speak to one of the brothers who helps the older boys until they find employment. She was gone for the better part of the day. I watched for her constantly and rushed to her when I saw her open the gate.
She was not smiling. Her first words to me were, “I am sorry, Johanna.”
I drew in a deep breath to prepare myself for what was to come, for if she had good news for me she would not say she was sorry and she would not have looked so sad.
The brother knew only that Michael had left his employer on a moment’s notice. Sister Marie-France had also visited the sheds and had discovered that there is a Joanna Leary lately listed among the dead. The spelling is a little different from my own name, but Michael likely took this as a mistake if indeed he saw it written out.
I begged Sister Marie-France for the employer’s name and asked where I could find him. She gave me the information and directions besides, and I made my way to the address, which was located down in a dank alley near the water. Mr. Stuart McEwen was a gruff man who grumbled about Michael’s leaving suddenly. He did not know what had made him go so quickly, only that he was on his way to the Gatineau Hills, near Bytown. I guessed at once where Michael had gone. He is off to find Uncle Liam, whom he now takes to be his only living relative.
Later
I have been sitting by the window and weeping over these pages all night. I begged Sister Marie-France to let me go after Michael, but the journey is long and difficult for a boy, never mind for a girl travelling alone. Sister Marie-France said she would write to inform our uncle that Michael is on his way. I asked for pen and paper so that I might do it myself. This surprised her. I do not think that she believed I could write. She agreed and promised to have the letter sent when I had finished.
How I ache to see Michael. And how I wish this country was not so big.
July 20, 1847
Sister Marie-France sent my letter today. Now I have to wait, and I am not good at that.
I wish Connor would return so that I would have someone I know to talk to.
July 21, 1847
Sister Marie-France sent for me late today. She has found me a position. My employers are to be Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. He is a businessman. They have three children. Someone will come to collect me.
July 24, 1847
A man came for me in a wagon and drove me through the bustling streets, and everywhere I heard a language I do not understand. There are many people here who speak French. The driver, Pierre, is French but speaks English very well. He says that Montreal is home to more than fifty thousand people.
The houses are all of stone and have very steep roofs. Pierre says this is because it snows a lot in winter and the steep roofs let the snow slide off. If the roofs were flat, the snow would get very deep and the roofs might collapse. I cannot imagine so much snow.
At last we came to a large, handsome house. Pierre drove to the back and pointed to the door where I should enter. It led down into a large whitewashed kitchen. A woman, her sleeves pushed up and a cap upon her head, set aside her rolling pin and came around the table to look more closely at me. She is Mrs. Coteau, the Johnsons’ cook.
I dared not move as she circled me, even when — I am sure of it — she sniffed me and, sounding a wee bit disappointed, pronounced me “clean enough for now, I suppose.” She then shepherded me up another much narrower set of stairs and along a dark hall to a door. She knocked, and a voice called, “Enter.” A woman sat writing at a desk — Mrs. Johnson. She did not look up until she had finished writing, had dusted the powder off her page, and closed her account book.
Ma always said that you can no more judge a person at first glance than you can a pudding before you taste it, for people are often not what they seem. But she would change her mind if she met Mrs. Johnson. She is a thin, stern-looking woman. She is well-dressed and has her hair pulled back and held in place with silver combs, and I am sure there are many who would call her elegant. But her eyes spoil the picture. They are small and sharp and searching.
Mrs. Johnson sat back in her chair to inspect me. She did not address me but spoke only to Mrs. Coteau, directing that I be washed thoroughly, for she did not trust the sisters to have done the job properly. After that I was to be shown my duties. Mrs. Coteau was to inform her directly if I was found to be unsuitable in any way.
I scrubbed myself in the kitchen under the eyes of Mrs. Coteau, who told me that “Madame” believed very much in cleanliness. She said that much of my time would be spent in the kitchen, but that I would be expected to help with the general cleaning when needed. I am to sleep on a small cot in the kitchen and to be responsible for stirring up the fire and boiling the kettle first thing each morning.
After I was deemed clean, I was put to work scouring pots with sand and then rinsing and drying them thoroughly. From the matter caked inside them, I guessed that they had been left where they were for a day or two. I later learned that I was right. Mrs. Johnson turned the previous girl out only two days ago. Mrs. Coteau had managed by using every vessel in the kitchen, praying that a replacement would appear before she herself would have to scrub the pots. Before I could finish this first chore, I was set to work on the vegetables for dinner. After that there was more washing up to do as well as finishing the pots. I scrubbed until my arms ached, my hands were as wrinkled as a crone’s, and my feet felt like two great rocks. But I could not rest even then, for the kitchen floor had to be scrubbed from one end to the other.
I have found the perfect hiding place for my book and my bit of pencil. I have tucked them between the rope and the blanket of my little bed.
July 25, 1847
Mrs. Coteau says I have got off to a bad start because she had to shake me awake this morning. No matter what I did — washing, scrubbing pots, preparing vegetables — she grumbled at me. For my part, I cannot believe that one household can consume so much food! For dinner there
was soup, meat, bread, vegetables, relishes, pickles and pudding — but no potatoes. Mrs. Coteau, the gardener and I ate when the Johnsons had finished.
July 26, 1847
Today was baking day. Mrs. Coteau bustled about, taking the bread dough, which she had set to rise during the night, out to a small bread oven behind the house. I was left to polish the silver and clean the knives, while watching a pot on the fire. It was so hot that I felt faint once or twice.
I caught sight of Mr. William Johnson for the first time. He is a banker. He dresses elegantly and leaves the house early each morning to go to his office. Mrs. Coteau says that he is an important man and that his business interests keep him busy, so he is not home for every evening meal. He is quite handsome and, unlike his wife, he smiles easily. The children ran down the stairs to greet him. The littlest one, whose legs still wobble when he walks, is a boy named Matthew. Mrs. Johnson immediately clapped her hands to shoo them away, saying that their poor father was too tired for such childish chaos. But clearly Mr. Johnson did not agree. “Nonsense,” he declared, gathering Matthew and Nellie, who is seven, into his arms and carrying them up the stairs, trailed by Peggy, the eldest. I heard them laughing long after they had reached the top, and a terrible pain stabbed my heart. How I miss my own da and how he used to laugh and tumble with Michael and me and sing to wee Patrick.
July 27, 1847
Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. The most difficult are the carpets. Mrs. Johnson employs another girl, Claire, who clearly believes herself above me in station. Together she and I moved all the furniture so that we could take the carpets up one by one. We rolled them and took them outside, where we hung them on a line. I was left to beat them as if they were the most wicked creatures on earth and it had fallen to me to punish them. In the end, it was I who felt punished. No matter how long I pounded at them, it was deemed insufficient to shake loose every speck of dirt. I kept at it until I feared my arms would drop off. After I had beaten them to Claire’s satisfaction, we dragged them back inside and replaced the furniture we had moved. My arms were so sore that I dropped two pots, one of soup and the other of gravy, one right after the other. Mrs. Coteau was very cross with me.
A Sea of Sorrows Page 4