Downhill Chance

by Donna Morrissey

  Chapter Five

  THE DAY OF JOB'S ARRIVAL dawned a brilliant clear sky. Up with the chickens as she had been since the day of the letter three months before, Sare rustled through the house like a spring breeze, dusting, polishing, tidying, having days before scrubbed down the floors, walls and ceilings, and painted and touched up chairs and skirting boards and window benches, and a hundred other varied and sundry tasks that the house had been begging for since the day of Job's departure. The neighbours waved cheerily as she stood in the window, polishing and smiling out at them as they passed by, lugging their buckets of water or heading for the wood trails with their axes and bucksaws. For despite the scorn that had been heaped upon his departure, the outporters had been buzzing for days about Job's return, and wondering amongst themselves—and to Sare, now that she was getting out a bit more—what stories he might have to tell about the war and other things that come with travelling over the seas.

  Clair skipped lightly down over the stairs, not wanting to miss a second of this promising day, and came to a standstill as her eyes lit onto her mother standing before the bin. It wasn't so much that Sare was whipping up a pudding this morning before the sun had yet to rise, but that she was doing so dressed in her red satin skirt that she only wore on Christmas Day or Easter Sunday, with an edging of white petticoat slipping a little below the hemline, and her white, high-collared blouse with the pearly buttons. And gracing her neck and earlobes were the rhinestone necklace and matching earrings that Job had given her for her birthday that first year they had married.

  "You're the early bird this morning," said Sare gaily, wiping up a floption of flour and water she had spilled onto the bin. "For goodness' sake, Clair, are you sleepwalking?" she asked as Clair continued to stand, wide-eyed.

  "You're wearing your Christmas clothes," said Clair.

  "Is that what I'm wearing?" said Sare, cracking an egg and stirring it into the mixing bowl. "And I thought it was a skirt and blouse."

  "But it looks silly—everybody will stare."

  "What's wrong with that? Your father's coming home today, child. Why wouldn't you want to be dressed grandly on the day your father's coming home?" She swung proudly past her daughter, her skirt rustling around her stockinged legs as she pulled a cake pan out of the bottom drawer of the stove. "Now, you get yourself some breakfast," she said, waltzing back to the sink, "then, go wake Missy. I wants you to wash her hair so's it'll be nice and fresh. You knows how your father likes to smell her hair after it's all washed and fresh. And then you can make your bed, and put on your nice dress and the new stockings that I bought you for church last month."

  "But it's Saturday," said Clair. "I'm not walking down on the wharf dressed like Christmas on a Saturday. Everybody will be staring."

  "Goodness mercy, Clair, are you going to stand there arguing about what day of the week it is? Your father's coming home. Now go get washed and get your breakfast like I asked you."

  "But I'm not wearing no Sunday clothes on a Saturday—"

  "Well, sir," sighed Sare, standing arms akimbo, "Saturday or no, you'll go get dressed like I asked you. If the good Lord can see fit to bring your father home from across the world, then I see fit that we be dressed respectably to greet him when he gets here, because for sure, it's a day of all days, isn't it, with your father coming home? And isn't that when we wears our best clothes—on the day of all days?"

  Clair moped to the washstand, staring morosely at her mother in the mirror, knowing better than to argue with her when she was on about the higher moral of things. But as grand as it was that her father was coming home, she wasn't going to be wearing her Sunday clothes on a Saturday for Phoebe and everybody else to be pointing and staring at. A shuffling outside signalled the uncle, and coupled with her mother looking like a Christmas wreath, a sourness tempered some of the joy of the morning. The door opened and she saw before the uncle entered, the thoughtful look bringing life to his otherwise dulled eyes, for wasn't it one's make-up to sniff out that which was new? To juggle a closing door against the bounty of another? And now with his brother coming home to warm his own hearth, what right had he now to the fresh loaves of bread and sweet puddings, and Missy's labours to cleanse his bin? And for sure, thought Clair, drowning her face in a handful of water, he'd have to find some other poor mortals to steal his grub from now that her father had come home.

  "I'm going to tell Daddy," she silently promised herself as her mother, brushing bread crumbs off her hands, greeted the uncle with smiles.

  "You're up and about early," she declared, closing the door behind him. "Come in, come in, and have a cup of tea."

  "No. No tea," said Sim, his eyes sinking onto the sliver of lace edging below her skirt.

  Sare, quick to follow his look, stepped prudently behind a chair. "I was just arguing with Clair about how silly it must seem to be dressing up on a Saturday," she said. "But it's Job's homecoming, after all."

  "Are you coming with us to see Daddy, Uncle Sim?" asked Missy, running down the stairs and over to her uncle.

  "The wind's off the water," said Sim, patting the back of Missy's curls. "The grandmother asked if she can wait up with her," he said to Sare, scuffing his feet on the piece of cardboard she had laid as a mat before the door.

  "My goodness, no," exclaimed Sare. "Job would want to see her on the wharf, waiting for him. Tell grandmother she's a dear, and Job will be proud to know how well his mother's been keeping company with his little girl, but, blessed heart, he'll miss her if she's not waiting on the wharf for him, won't he, Clair?"

  Clair scratched a smile across her face as she looked to the uncle, but it was onto Missy that his eyes were fastened, and it satisfied the jealousy breeding in her heart to see the look of disappointment settling over his wrinkling old face, for she had been a good bone, had Missy, always there to be played with, to do the dirty dishes, and to buffer the heat between him and the grandmother. And for sure, thought Clair—her happiness this morning extending a rare moment of charity towards the uncle—in a house as darkened with pettiness as her own had been in despair, Missy's would be a precious light to lose.

  "I'll come tomorrow, Uncle Sim, won't I, Mommy?"

  "Of course you will. And tell Grandmother, Job will be up, too—and me and Clair. It's the least we can do, now that the good Lord has brought us all together again—to show ourselves as a family. What do you say, Clair? My, Sim, are you sure you won't stay for tea?"

  "No, no, I'll be going."

  "Bless you for thinking of us. And now that Job's coming home, you won't have to bother with us any more. God knows you've seen us through these past horrible years. I swear, I don't know what we would've done without you."

  The uncle bowed in the face of Sare's praise. "I'll go with ye when the boat comes," he said gravely.

  "That's all right; we can walk ourselves," said Clair impulsively.

  "He's family, and Job will want him there, too," said Sare, eyeing her daughter sharply. "Bless you, and give Grandmother our love," she called out as the uncle, with scarcely a glance at Clair, let himself out the door. The second the latch clicked, Sare spun onto her eldest girl.

  "You'll mind your ungratefulness! I allows your poor father's heart's going to be broke if he hears how bad you behaves towards his brother after all he's done for us this past two years."

  "He does for his self," muttered Clair.

  "He'd have to walk on water before he'd get a kind thought from you, and even then, I swear you'd be checking the soles of his feet for stilts. Now, go get dressed, and don't argue no more about the clothes I got laid out, because you're wearing them, supposing I got to dress you myself. Missy! Missy, come here, child, I washes your face and combs your hair. Go on, Clair, up over them stairs!" she ordered, pulling Missy to the washstand. "Landsakes, the tangles," she complained, trying to draw a brush through Missy's hair, "it's a wonder you got any hair left on your head. Where's your ribbons? Have you got any ribbons? Clair, have a look around her r
oom and find me some ribbons. I swear I've used a yard of material making ribbons this past year and I still can't find one when I needs it." Backing up to the stairwell, leading Missy by a ringlet, she called out, "Clair, Clair, are you looking for ribbons, or you just going to spend the day moping? I swear your father's going to have his hands full with the two of you once he gets back."

  "I listens," said Missy, as Sare bustled her back to the washstand, wetting the brush into the wash pan. "Clair's ignorant."

  "For the love of it, Missy, where're you learning words like that—and saying them against your sister?"

  "Uncle Sim tells them to her," shouted Clair, tossing two yellow ribbons down from the landing.

  "No, he don't," shouted Missy.

  "Yes, he do," Clair shouted back. "He's a bloody blackguard."

  "Clair!" Sare ran back to the stairs, wielding the hairbrush like a tomahawk, but her eldest was already disappearing inside her room, slamming the door behind her. "The sting of my hand is what you're going to feel, young lady, if I hears one more word," Sare yelled up over the stairs. "I swear I don't know where the two of you is getting your bad manners, because it was never a thing allowed around here. My, is that the pudding? Well, sir, I forgot all about the pudding, and it's black currant, your father's favourite. Ohh, I allows it black as the cinders. Clair? Clair—get dressed and get down over them stairs and help me this morning."

  Clair trudged down over the stairs, her face darker than a rain cloud as she pressed down the skirt of her plaid Sunday dress, watching her mother bustling to and fro in a rustle of silks and petticoat. When finally the pudding was scraped, and Missy's hair was brushed and tied up with ribbons, and they had all eaten breakfast and with the dishes washed and floors swept and waxed and buffed, the booming of the steamer sounded up over the hill.

  "He's here," cried Sare, running for her coat. Sim, his hair wet back off his forehead, and wearing his Sunday jacket, tapped on the door, poking his head inside. "I allows you're going to have to hold me down," cried Sare running to meet him, "because I swear my feet just wants to up and fly. Missy, Clair, come on, let's go. And watch out for the ruts in the road so's you don't get mud on your new stockings—Missy? Clair?"

  The wind grazed damp and soft against Clair's cheek as she lagged behind her mother, uncle and sister, her coat wrapped tightly around the tail of her Sunday dress, partially hiding her new white stockings. Head down, she avoided those peering through their windows at Sare, or hanging off their back steps, calling out greetings as they, too, hurried through their housework, preparing to run down over the hill and greet the steamer. Luckily, Phoebe and Joanie and everybody were taking advantage of a Saturday morning and burrowing more comfortably into their beds, mindless of Job Gale or any other soldier coming home this early in the day, sparing Clair the sight of her friends, at least, watching her walk down the road on a Saturday with her Sunday clothes on.

  "Small comfort," she muttered, then turned her glance resentfully at the uncle's back as he took hold of Missy's hand, no doubt appearing to all those looking as the doting uncle. And were not his shoulders more drooped than yesterday—testimony to the burden he'd borne these past years? And did not his grave look and Sunday jacket lift him above the ranks of the rest of the Basiners this morning, earning him a share in the excitement of her father's homecoming?

  Lordy, she bemoaned, pushing away her thoughts of gloom—her mother was right—this was a day to treasure, and here she'd gotten herself into a snit because of the uncle and a few garments. But gloom redescended as her mother queened towards her, her head slightly tilted beneath her green feathered hat, her eyes more sparkling than the rhinestones adorning her throat and earlobes, and her coat partially opened, showing off the red of her satin skirt and the gleaming whiteness of its lacy, hanging petticoat. Plus, at the last moment before leaving the house, she had tinted up her lips and cheeks with a little rouge—worse than Joanie Pinkson's doll.

  It struck her then that since the day her father had walked away from her, down over the hill to the waiting steamer, and she had run inside to find her mother sobbing broken-heartedly, and Missy crumpling onto the floor, holding her arms up to Clair, that she hadn't again thought of the doll. How so should she think of it now—on the same day as his return? And in such a manner? For upon thinking of the doll, she had turned her eyes skyward, and imprinted upon the cloud-tossed blue were the marble blue eyes in a stoic pink face, and painted lips that never moved, and glossy, curled hair and painted brows. The image hung there as did the hands of the clock in her mother's kitchen, awaiting the breath of an ocean's breeze to infuse it with life.

  With a sudden gust the sky shifted, no longer the robin's-egg blue of a second ago, but deepening to shades of indigo and mulberry, lightening, then darkening. As her father's features replaced the face of the doll, they shifted too—his eyes, squinting, gazing, his cheeks dimpling, his mouth widening, narrowing—nothing stilled, nothing stationary. She shivered as that same gust now curled itself inside her collar, causing her to tighten further her coat as she turned her glance down over the bay to where the steamer was quickly approaching.

  They reached the wharf and looked over the heads of their neighbours at the black hull of the ship as it neared, heaving and dropping on the swells from an offshore storm, and with a flock of snipes and gulls screaming over its stern. It wasn't just her father's homecoming that was spurring people out the door this morning. The steamer's first visit of the year was always too fortunate to miss, what with the parcels of all shapes and sizes being unloaded and passed around before finding their rightful hands, and the passengers from up and down the bay getting off and milling around the wharf to stretch their sea legs and calling out to those they know and sharing bits of news about politics and friends before launching off again.

  An old couple huddled at the far side of the wharf near the store and Clair peered more closely as the wind swiped the hood back off the old woman's head, exposing her tight white braids. She instantly remembered that it was the same old woman that she had seen standing in the shadow of the stagehead the day her father brought them home from Cat Arm. And the brown worsted cap pulled down over the ears of the old man standing besides her left no wonder in her mind as to who these people were and their reason for making the trip from Rocky Head on this most hopeful of days. Holed by the cuddy in a boat bobbing up and down on the water behind them was a young fellow with longish blond hair tucked behind his ears and straying down over his shirt collar. Emptying out bilge water with a bicket, he sat with his back to the wharf, seemingly oblivious of the dozens of people swarming around and casting curious looks his way, but there was a tautness to his shoulders, and as Clair watched, she sensed as strongly as if she were sitting in the boat alongside of him that this was more attributed to the dozens of pairs of eyes boring into his back than his act of bailing out bilge water. She knew because the same tautness was stiffening her shoulders as she stood with the glaring white of her Sunday stockings luring, undoubtedly, the attention of every man, woman and child standing behind her.

  Frankie moved out from the crowd and stood talking with the elderly couple, and Willamena, brushing past Clair, ran over to join him, linking her arm through his. Spotting Crowman slouching against the side of the store, Clair pushed away from her mother and sought shelter in the shadow he threw off besides him. A dog trotted by and Missy sprang after it, and the uncle after Missy so's she'd not get her stockings dirty. Her mother stood by herself for the moment, and Clair noted that even Crowman, who was renowned for his absent-mindedness, couldn't help but be attracted to the sight of her mother. If not for the Sunday clothes, her presence might have blended with the others and one might not have noted the trembling of her mouth and the expectancy in her eyes, like the bared soul of a virgin maid upon the eve of her first love. As was, the wind-fondled garments resembled a foreign flag fluttering around her legs, enticing all those who neared to stare and query whether scorn or respect was t
he appropriate tribute to this exotic outlander, or whether to turn away from the beguiling appeal of the bride and satisfy their intrigue through secretive, sideway glances instead.

  Not so was Clair flapping in their faces. Scrunching as tightly to the side of the store as its walls would allow, her coat tightly drawn around her, and the white of her stockings greyed by Crowman's shadow, she more resembled a flag at half-mast on a windless day. A shout sounded from up on deck as the last rope was tied and the gangway lowered, and Sare, forgetting once again those standing around her, pressed forward, cottons and satins fluttering around her legs, searching out the faces of those leaning over the ship's railing. Heavily clothed figures stared back, their gaze skipping over the upturned faces of most of the people and fastening their scrutiny onto Sare's, as intrigued as the Basiners by this coloured spectre straining towards them, her eyes eagerly searching theirs, so urgent, so tremulous, one feared she would succumb to convulsions before discovering that which she so frantically sought.