March 5, 1952
My Dear Jonathan:
Your letter was like a balm to my heart and soul. It took a month to reach me and I read and reread it eagerly.
Your town seems to be somewhat bigger than Badger. You say there are about five thousand people there and about one-fifth of them are your flock. Well, the whole town of Badger has only one thousand souls and about two hundred of them are mine – God’s and mine.
I looked up Hearst in the atlas. It is about as far north as you can go in Ontario. You must miss the warmer climate of your native British Columbia.
As for me, even though Badger is inland and is not even remotely like St. John’s, at least it is Newfoundland and we Newfoundlanders have a common bond that runs through us.
One thing that our postings have alike is the forest industry. You say you have a pulp mill there. There’s one here too; not in Badger, but Grand Falls, eighteen miles away. The logs are cut here and sent to the mill via the Exploits River, which cuts its way through the landscape like a mighty scar.
It makes me wonder: did someone plan this for you and me? And I don’t mean Divine Intervention.
I am doing fine, physically, as I hope you are too. However, I am very lonely. I have to say that I miss you more than I ever believed possible. When I think of the hours we spent together at the school, talking, arguing religious philosophy, laughing at each other, my heart aches. I will probably never see you again, but you will always be a part of my soul.
I promise, no matter what, to keep up our correspondence. May God be with you in all that you do.
Until next time, pray for me as I will for you
Your friend forever,
Damian
Badger matured young Damian Genge. Church stewards wanted a pastor who understood about the hole in the church roof and how to get it fixed and how church funds should be spent wisely. Damian had to learn fast. And he did. His hair, his handsome face, his expensive suit were still his personal priorities, but not as much as they’d been in the beginning. Sometimes he even forgot to file his nails or shave his armpits. Slowly his life took on other priorities.
May 5, 1952
Greetings Damian:
Yes, indeed, it takes a month for a letter to go between us. I was overjoyed to hear from you. Since we parted last June, I have felt an incompleteness that I never knew was there, that I never even knew existed before you came into my life.
We are deep into the winter here. Some days it barely gets light at all. You’re right, the intense cold does penetrate my thin west-coast blood and I am sure I’ll never be warm again.
You’ll laugh when I tell you how the ladies here are trying to matchmake. They are certain that I need a wife. I bet you are going through the same thing.
What will happen to us, my friend? Will we eventually be forced to take wives onto ourselves? Do we have any choice but to fit into this society?
I spend many hours on my knees praying to Jesus about this. I read the Bible over and over. We were taught that His Word is Law.
Yes, we will always keep in touch, my friend. We cannot allow life to rip us asunder.
Yours, under God’s protection,
Jonathan
Away in St. John’s, on her own, Jennie didn’t know if she was Catholic or Pentecostal, so she took turns going to each church. The Catholic churches were so big that no one noticed her, but the Pentecostals welcomed her and the pastor shook her hand.
“Are you new in town, my dear?” he asked.
“Yes Pastor, thank you for asking,” Jennie replied. “I’m in from Badger.”
He looked at her blankly for a moment.
“It’s out by Grand Falls, you know,” Jennie said. “Perhaps you know Pastor Genge. Pastor Damian Genge.”
Something flared in the man’s eyes, then was quickly quenched, but Jennie saw it. “Oh, indeed. Indeed. We were in Bible College together,” he said and turned his attention to another of his congregation.
Something going on there, Jennie thought. I always wondered how a handsome fella like Damian Genge, with his gifts as an orator and evangelist, ended up in little Badger. This pastor isn’t nearly as good a preacher and for sure not as good-looking, but he has a plummy St. John’s church
Another time, still torn over the lie she had told about having a baby just to get married to Tom, Jennie went to confession. She thought, Big city church, no one will know me. Not like home, where the priest knows my voice. For sure I’ll get absolution here.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” she said demurely. “Father, I burned my mother-in-law’s fox-fur stole,” Jennie blurted out, shocking even herself. She had planned to talk about the pregnancy lie.
“Is this a sin of coveting the stole, my child? Is that why you burned it?”
“No, Father. It is a sin of hatred. I hate her. She told lies and broke up my marriage.”
“A wife’s duty is to cleave onto her husband. You must go back and make peace with him and his good mother.”
“Cleave?” Jennie was raging. “The only cleaving that is going to be done is by me, cleaving Suze’s head open . . . or Tom’s head, if he don’t soon come to his senses. I’ll give you cleave, Father!”
Because she wouldn’t say she was sorry, the priest wouldn’t give her absolution. Jennie stormed out of the Basilica. And that was that.
In October, she got a telegram from Mam that said the twins were sick. A boy and a girl, thirteen years old, Jennie’s youngest siblings, were struck down with polio. The disease was raging throughout Newfoundland. Some years they would delay the opening of the schools, trying to keep the disease from spreading. A few years later, children were given the Salk vaccine, but by then it was too late for the twins. By the time Jennie got the train back to Badger, they were dead and buried. Doctor said that polio could progress to meningitis in some extreme cases, and that was what had happened with the twins.
Oh God, God in Heaven! Jennie’s parents were beside themselves. She took over running the household and looking after everyone. Mam spent most of her time sitting in the rocking chair, looking through the window and crying. Poor Mam.
13
Although life as a Mi’kmaq was hard, Ralph was not entirely without friends among the white population of Badger. Some people welcomed him into their homes and their lives. Alf Elliott, the telegraph operator, often invited him to his house in the evenings. They’d play accordions together, with Ralph being the teacher. Another evening it was the harmonica. There was no instrument that Ralph couldn’t play. He was a sought-after entertainer for weddings, dances and wakes. For dances in the town hall, the accordion was a must for stomp-’er-down music and the fiddle for step dances. The weddings wanted some of that, plus the guitar, but for wakes Ralph used only his fiddle.
Sometimes the groom paid him five dollars for his music; sometimes the people who organized the dance in the town hall paid him a little; sometimes a relative of the bereaved slipped him a couple dollars. Ralph considered this smoke money. Mostly, he played for free. He was never asked by the A.N.D. Company executives, the higher-ups, but that didn’t bother him.
Rod Anderson’s daughter Audrey had married a fellow from St. John’s, a cop. They visited Badger a few times and, through Rod, Ralph came to know the young man’s father. He was a police sergeant, and he could certainly play the fiddle. Ralph and he got together a few times and sawed out some sweet tunes.
Constable Richard Fagan had met Audrey Anderson at the Lieutenant-Governor’s garden party. He was in his dress uniform and was standing at attention by the entrance to Government House. One of the constabulary always stood there as a formality during the garden parties, staring straight ahead and standing at attention as if he were guarding Buckingham Palace. Those chosen hated the job in the heat of the summer as they stewed in their wool uniforms.
The summer sun was blazing down on the young constable’s white helmet, sweat was running over his brow, and his feet were hurting. And he
was not in a good mood. The Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Leonard Outerbridge, and Lady Outerbridge were doing a walk-about. Ladies in fancy hats and men in pinstriped trousers and spats were bowing and scraping. The Church Lads Brigade Band was playing the Ode to Newfoundland in the background.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a timid voice near his elbow. “Lady Outerbridge’s cat has escaped and is over in the garden of the American Consul. Can you help me?”
Richard slowly looked around. “I cannot leave my post, miss.” Lady Outerbridge’s cat? he thought, trying to maintain a stern face. Do I look like a cat catcher?
“Oh please, please. I know she’ll be upset if she loses the cat. I was supposed to be watching her, but I was helping the other maids cut the sandwiches for tea, and someone left the door open and – she was gone.” Richard looked at her more closely and saw that her eyes were a deep blue and her glossy brown hair was pinned up under her white cap. She was dressed in uniform, black dress with a white apron cinching her narrow waist.
She certainly was a pretty girl, and Richard softened somewhat. “All right, let’s hurry then. Just so you know, I can get in trouble too.”
There was a gate to the back garden of the American Consul and they slipped inside. The darned cat was up in a tree. Preparing to climb, Richard took off his helmet and started to unbutton his blue uniform jacket, but the maid was up that tree before he had the first button undone. Good God, he thought, look at her climb.
Getting down, carrying a reluctant cat wasn’t as easy. Audrey’s foot slipped and she started to fall, but Richard caught her in his arms. He stood there for a moment, holding this maid and this vice-regal cat in his arms, unsure of what to do next.
Then he set Audrey on her feet. “Look here, miss,” he said, “if you can climb that well, why did you need me?”
She laughed. “I knew I could climb up there, but I also knew I’d need help coming down holding the cat. I actually had a mind to toss the cat to you, but my foot slipped before I could get the chance.”
Merciful God! She had planned to throw me the cat! Richard wasn’t particularly fond of cats.
“Hmmph. Well, you’re down now – you and the cat.” Richard was grumpy, but intrigued by the girl with the nice laugh. “By the way, where did you learn to climb like that? You’re as good as the cat.”
Again she laughed that merry laugh. “Where I come from there are lots and lots of trees. Many of them are higher than that one.”
“Where’s that?”
“I’m from Badger. Bet you don’t know where that is.
” “No, I’m not sure. Somewhere out near Grand Falls, I think, or maybe Corner Brook.”
The other policeman on duty called to him and Richard had to go. He held out his hand, suddenly reluctant to leave her. “I’m Richard Fagan. Nice to meet you.”
She laughed and shook hands. “A funny way to meet, wouldn’t you say? I am Audrey Anderson.”
Richard hurried back across the lawn to his post. “Who you talking to, Dickie?” asked his partner, Bob Parsons.
“That was a nice young woman who wanted me to rescue the Lady’s cat. And don’t call me Dickie.”
Bob paid him no heed. Some of his fellow officers who had known him since he was a boy called him Dickie. Richard hated the nickname. It brought back reminders of another life and another set of circumstances, long ago. So long ago that Richard could almost forget it.
Later that evening he got out a map of Newfoundland and looked for Badger in what was referred to as Central Newfoundland, but strictly speaking, it wasn’t. The centre of the island was wilderness. Badger was actually centred midway on the railway line that went across the island. He could see it there, next to Grand Falls. Not many people of his acquaintance had been out as far as Grand Falls, except for a few guys who had gone there to play hockey at times, but none of them had reason to go to Badger.
Richard thought about Audrey off and on for the rest of the summer and fall, wondering how he’d get to meet her again. He could hardly march up to the door of Government House and ask for her.
Just before Christmas, Richard’s mother said to him, “Would you come downtown with me today? I’d appreciate your help in buying Papa’s Christmas present.”
“Sure thing, Mama. And maybe while we’re there I can pick up my gift for you. I saw some nice strings of pearls in Bowrings. Since you burst yours last year, I dare say you’d like a new strand.”
They put on their coats and got aboard Papa’s old Studebaker. “Now Mama, I’m all yours. You just tell me where you want to go.”
“O’Brien’s Music Store at 278 Water Street is supposed to be the best place, according to an ad in the Daily News. Let’s try there.”
Richard drove down New Cove Road, Kings Bridge Road and down over the Hill o’ Chips to Water Street. “You haven’t said what you’re buying for Papa, but I suspect it’s a fiddle. Am I right?”
His mother laughed. “Yes, that’s it. The one he has doesn’t have the right sound, he says. He picked near Christmastime to complain, hoping, I’m sure, that I’d get a new one to put under the tree.”
Warm air flooded around them when they opened the door to O’Brien’s. It felt good after the wind outside. There weren’t many people in the small store, and Mama went looking at the fiddles while Richard waited for the clerk to finish ringing up a sale. Idly, he noticed the back of the woman at the counter. It was a nice, trim-looking back in a red coat. For no reason, Audrey flashed across his mind again, as she often did. Then the customer turned and it was her! For a minute they were face to face, speechless. Did she remember him?
“Audrey?”
“Why, its Richard, isn’t it? Fancy meeting you after all this time.” She was laughing. Richard could see that he hadn’t imagined those eyes, that hair, that laugh. They were real.
The clerk hovered and Richard pointed to Mama. “See that lady over there by the fiddles? She’s interested in buying one. Please tell her I’ll be along in a moment.”
When it was just the two of them, they both started to speak at the same time.
“I wondered about . . .”
“Are you still . . . ?”
“You first.”
“Are you still at Government House? I’ve thought of you many times and . . . and wondered how Lady Outerbridge’s cat is. I was tempted to call and inquire – about the cat, I mean.”
“No, I’m not at Government House now. The cat is fine, I think.” She laughed. “That was only a part-time job while I went to summer school. I’ve got my teaching certificate now, and I’m going back home to teach. I’m here to buy my dad a harmonica for Christmas.” She held up her package.
Richard didn’t know what to say. Oh no, I just found her again and now she’s leaving St. John’s.
Mama bustled over with the clerk in tow. “Dickie,” she said. Not Dickie. Richard cringed inside. “I need a bit of help with the fiddle.”
She looked quizzically at Audrey.
“Mama, this is Audrey Anderson.” He didn’t even know if he should call her a friend or what to call her.
Audrey held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fagan.”
“It’s Mrs. Abernathy, dear. Uh . . . Richard kept his family name when my husband and I took him in.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Audrey looked confused.
“I’m buying a fiddle for my husband. The two of you should come over, as I would like your opinion.”
The next morning, the look of surprise on Audrey’s face when she saw him in the waiting room at the train station was worth his early rise. He liked to think she was pleased too. Or perhaps she wasn’t. A man never knew where he stood with a woman.
As people were going out to board, he picked up her suitcase. “Audrey, I’d like for us to keep in touch. Do you think we might write to each other?”
“That’d be lovely, Richard. All you have to put on the envelope is Audrey Anderson, Badger.”
“No street ad
dress?”
“Not necessary. Everyone knows me.”
“How many people live there?”
“About a thousand, I think. Why?”
“I’m just trying to imagine a place where everyone knows your name.”
The whistle blew. The conductor yelled. “All aboard for Port aux Basques and points between.” Audrey quickly squeezed his hand and gave him one of her unforgettable smiles. As the train pulled out of the station, she went out of his life again.
During the winter of 1954, they wrote to each other quite often, and when summer came, Audrey came back to St. John’s to stay with friends.
Richard was in a dither of excitement. Mama told him to ask her for supper, but before he brought her he said, “Now Mama, no calling me Dickie, please. I want to be called Richard. I hate that Dickie business.”
They had a nice enough evening. Richard’s foster parents liked Audrey, and he supposed she liked them. They didn’t have much common ground, but they all tried. Audrey told them about her parents and about the little town in Central Newfoundland. Papa Abernathy was interested in the pulp and paper industry and the dense forests of the interior. He was that kind of person; wanted to know about everything.
Once, Audrey slipped and called Mama Mrs. Fagan. She apologized and asked her how old Richard was when he came to live with them.
Mama said proudly, “Dickie was seven years old, twenty years ago this winter.”
Richard groaned to himself. Stop with the Dickie! He quickly changed the subject by jumping up and saying it was getting late and they needed to be going.
As they grew to know each other better, Richard asked Audrey how she felt about marriage. He hadn’t declared himself to her as yet, but he wanted to sound her out.
Audrey said she was full of doubts.
“Richard, life is different in Badger. People are different. You have no idea. My family is very important to me. Perhaps you should make a trip out to Badger and meet them. After that, if you still want to, we’ll discuss how I feel about marriage.”
The Badger Riot Page 10