Silent Time

by Paul Rowe

  He looked through his rounded spectacles at Thomas who sat sucking on his pipe in the rocking chair by the woodstove, sending great clouds of smoke tumbling across the kitchen at him. The smoke wafted toward the ceiling and resolved itself into one long blue wave cut by a thick shaft of afternoon sunlight. William enjoyed a smoke himself, but today his own pipe was empty, cooling on the table as a sign of surrender to Thomas; or an unheeded plea for mercy.

  Thomas had been startled to find a politician on his doorstep on Easter Sunday morning. It had briefly crossed William’s mind to call out “April Fools” when Thomas opened the door. Instead, William quickly assured him, as Thomas carried his satchel upstairs, that he’d been to Mass in Placentia already, but that he was keen to get a jump on campaigning well before the May election. It would have been closer to the truth to say that the unending solemnities of Easter Week were driving him mad, and that he simply couldn’t stand to be barred up for another day at the old family home in Placentia, where he always spent Easter and Christmas holidays.

  He’d planned his visit to the Cape Shore for later in the week but, in a moment of quick and sudden resolve, had packed his bag last night instead. As soon as Mass was over, he’d headed for Miller’s Wharf, jumped into the dory he kept there for excursions down the shore, hauled oil clothes on over his dark suit, replaced his grey homburg with a black sou’wester, and headed out the harbour. He was grateful that a stiff off-shore breeze had masked the putt-putt of his new Coaker engine; he didn’t want it to draw attention to his hasty departure. It was his custom to stay at Thomas and Maisie Tobin’s house in Knock Harbour while he visited the surrounding communities. Once there, he hauled up the dory, put his shoes back on, then stored his oil clothes and rubbers in the cuddy.

  William always wore a suit no matter where he traveled in the district. He wasn’t afraid of going on the salt water, he wasn’t dainty or squeamish, and people respected that, but he’d learned over the years that the government member shouldn’t too strongly resemble the people he represented. This had to be accomplished, however, without creating the impression that his years in St. John’s had turned him into a townie. The townie politicians usually left the capital only at election time to deliver their handful of empty promises. William swore when he’d entered politics that he would never become like them. He prided himself on having visited even the remotest parts of his sprawling district at least once during the last four years. He was well-liked because he’d made that effort and also because he was a bayman born in the riding. The only real and present threat to his re-election was his own lack of enthusiasm. He was struggling to find a spirit for electioneering and, what was worse, had no heart for promise-making any more. He was in a sorry state for a politician.

  “It’s going to be hard to get money out of the townies for that new bridge, Thomas,” William said.

  Knock Harbour was still badly in need of a new bridge, even though William had promised one in his last election campaign. But he’d been cast into Opposition in that 1919 election, the first since the Great War, and so must now encourage the idea, easily fostered in a man like Thomas Tobin, that the townies and the government party were one and the same. The notion provided at least some explanation for his failure to get things done over the last four years.

  Thomas furrowed the shiny dome of his forehead. William was gratified by a flash of resentment in the older man’s eyes at the mention of the townies. He’d often noted a lingering sadness there, too, heightened by thin yellow rings around the faded blue irises.

  “In my day, William, people looked after the bridges themselves,” he said. “But since the government started payin’ for road work, you won’t find a man around here to do it for free.”

  “You always say money ruined everything, Thomas.”

  Thomas made one slow nod to confirm this. “When a man hunted for food, he only caught or shot what he needed, but now that he gets a few cents for his brace of turr or rabbit, he got to kill every last one he sees.”

  William recognized the essential truth of this observation, but quickly redirected Thomas toward the more productive subject of the townies, who, especially with the election looming, must bear the blame for as much as possible.

  “It was the townies who brought money here in the first place, wasn’t it?” he said. The rocking chair stilled as a dark inner cloud passed over Thomas’s face.

  “All they ever brought here was trouble. I remembers one old bugger, Emerson was his name, had a white beard right down to his waist. My father used to spend whole days in the country with him when I was little. That townie took home more salmon an’ partridge than we’ll ever see, an’ all thanks to my father. But all Father ever got from the old bastard was a plug o’ tobacco. He’d put that in his pocket and not say a word. He had to please the townie, see, ‘cause ya never knew, one of those days he just might give you a bit o’ money. The bastard never give Father a cent, first nor last. He come down here and took what he wanted, same as the rest of ‘em. An’ Father would never ask for nothing. No, no, no, couldn’t do that! Thank God, I was never so foolish.” He punctuated this speech with a brown dollop of tobacco juice that slipped from his lips into the coal bucket.

  The heat from the woodstove was staggering, but Thomas still got up to poke in another birch junk and cut more shavings from his tobacco plug. He refilled his pipe, lit a match, and launched a fresh assault on the available oxygen in the room.

  William fought off another wave of panic and began to doubt the wisdom of his coming here. How was it possible that even in this house, in this tiny community on the remote Cape Shore, he still needed a place to hide? He searched desperately through the window for some relief in the grey day outside. Suddenly, he had an idea.

  “You know what, Thomas?” he said. “I’m going out for a while. I want to inspect the undercarriage of that old bridge myself.”

  He walked down the lane away from the Tobins’ solid two-story house. Thomas and Maisie were that rare childless couple and so, over the years, the extra space in the house had become devoted to things other than children. For some years now, Maisie had used the largest room downstairs as the Knock Harbour post office. Once a week, after Neddy Collins brought the mailbag down the shore from Placentia in his horse and gig, Maisie sorted the letters into the wooden slots that Thomas had built on the wall for hand-mail. He’d also cut a hole through to the pantry where Maisie handed out larger parcels and sold stamps and envelopes. A smaller downstairs room contained a wooden chair, a writing table and the only telephone in Knock Harbour. A great deal of news passed through the house, giving rise to an enormous flood of gossip from Maisie, but also to some solid information by way of Thomas. That, plus the fact they had an empty bedroom upstairs, made the Tobin’s a good house for William.

  At the bottom of the lane he turned sharply right onto the road leading to the bridge. He felt an urge to smoke now and stopped to fill his pipe. He struck the match and covered it protectively with his hand as he sucked the yellow triangle of flame down into the bowl. He always lit his pipe in the same way, indoors or out, with swift, deliberate movements that suggested he was standing in a strong wind. He certainly was this day, so he clutched his collar to his throat and felt the wind’s heft against him as he walked toward the bridge. Once there, he leaned for a moment against the railing and looked out to sea.

  The run-off from the barrens beyond the treeline formed the wide brook that accumulated here into a fair-sized pond. Its waters finally regained the ocean through the Knock Harbour gut. William saw the white curl of waves riding to shore beyond the barachois. He heard their distant tumble as an occasional splash, like white spit, leapt above the rocks into his view.

  He turned toward the spruce-covered hills that enclosed him on three sides. There were seven or eight saltbox houses in the valley, along with some grey weathered outbuildings, railing fences and rock-filled meadows matted today with dead grass. The little church-school was the only b
uilding with a difference. It had six small, but ornate, windows, and a steep, slanted roof bearing a thin white cross at the peak. The little cross struck him as incredibly brave or ridiculous, he couldn’t decide which, confronting that restless expanse of ocean.

  The church-school was, of course, empty today. There was no priest for Mass here on Easter Sunday. The children, like him, were on holidays, but it would have been unseemly to have them out running around. They were, no doubt, sitting forcibly at home. William was aware, as well, that besides having only intermittent visits from a priest, Knock Harbour was obliged to share a teacher with Sheep Cove, a two-mile walk along the hilly Cape Shore Road. To be fair to the children who must walk to school every day, the teacher resided in each place for five months of the school year. William was moved whenever he saw a slow parade of youngsters making its way up one of the steep Cape Shore hills. They’d have their cloth book bags hanging about their necks, and wooden lunch pails swinging at their sides, on their way to receive what little education the government provided in remote places like this.

  He turned to the westward again where the wide generous valley opened to the sea. Then he took a narrow rocky path over the side of the road and under the bridge. Once out of the wind, he closed his eyes and listened to the echoic rippling of the river. He sighed and was startled to hear it amplified into a despairing groan.

  He was forty-two years old, sociable enough on the surface of things, but essentially a solitary and lonely man. To many, he had been an impractical dreamer in his youth, one who’d squandered his so-called marriageable years in the unprofitable pursuits of mining and agriculture. The assessment had seemed painfully accurate, considering the abandoned farmhouses, fallow fields, and crumbling mine shafts that had followed him into middle age. Worst of all, though, was his failed marriage to Maria Downs. The Placentia girl had strong English roots and, unlike the others, had, at first, been quite taken with his adventurous ways. But when it became clear that he was no Cecil Rhodes and that Newfoundland would prove a great deal more covetous of her treasures than the African subcontinent, she grew violently disillusioned and left him after two unhappy, mercifully childless years. Afterwards, he heard that she would not suffer his name to be spoken in her presence. She had since married auspiciously and moved to England. He had not responded well to the episode. Subsequently, even after he had achieved a certain amount of success, women continued to baffle and frustrate him with their seemingly unrelenting material and social needs.

  Despite all that, his adventuring in mining and agriculture had eventually brought him some success through a career in politics. That turn of events came about due to an unlikely meeting which occurred fourteen years ago this month. It was with the man who, back then, was soon to become the next prime minister of Newfoundland.

  Back in April of 1909, William was seated one night at a table in the Star of the Sea Hall in Placentia regaling a group of men with the self-effacing story of his most recent misadventure, a failed silver mine up the Glen’s Cove River, when a rush of whispers suddenly ran through the room and then settled into a deep quiet. William turned in his chair and saw a clinging entourage of mostly local politicians surrounding Edward Morris, a tall man with a drooping moustache and large slippery eyes that surveyed the smoke-filled room. Morris held an elegant ivory-handled walking stick and the tallest, shiniest, blackest funnel of a top hat that William had ever seen. The visiting politician nodded to the crowded room, then, refraining from the occasion to make a speech, disappeared into the games room at the far end of the hall. William glimpsed the private room’s round oak table and bright green carpets before the door closed on the exclusive gathering. He imagined that the aspiring prime minister had settled into a meeting with his cabal of political hopefuls, and was surprised therefore when Captain Thomas Bonia had tapped him on the shoulder. In the last election Bonia had been Morris’s only successful candidate in the three-member district of Placentia-St. Mary’s. “Cantwell,” he said, indicating the games room with a nod, “Mr. Morris would like to have a chat with you.”

  William was like to fall out of his chair. He grinned uncertainly at the fellows at his table, who, considering he’d just given them their entertainment for the last hour, rather unfairly gave him a grudging send-off. He stopped outside the door and pawed at his hair for a moment, then realized there was really no way to make himself presentable. At the last second, he remembered to haul his suspenders onto his shoulders before he entered the room. He found Morris, alone, seated in a large leather chair that had no doubt been acquired specifically for him. The other men appeared to have left by a second door. William noted the robust colour in Morris’s cheeks and silently watched him warm a snifter of brandy in the cradle of his hand. Morris looked up and gave him a quick smile, then stared seriously into the brandy for a while and occasionally took a perfunctory sniff.

  Once he’d finally nodded William into a seat, Morris spoke through his walrus-like moustache. “Placentia-St. Mary’s is a three-seat riding, Cantwell, and the People’s Party needs all three this time if I’m going to give Bond the heave-ho once and for all.”

  A recent election between Sir Robert Bond’s Liberals and Morris’s People’s Party had ended with 18 seats going to each party. A tie-breaking election was set for the fall. William knew that Morris must be desperately hungry for victory, but still could not divine why the man, who might soon be prime minister, had summoned him to a private meeting.

  Morris, typically, it seemed to William, got right to the point.

  “This may come as something of a surprise to you, Cantwell, but I want you to be one of my men in Placentia-St. Mary’s.”

  William thought again that he might keel over and his hands tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. He couldn’t be sure he’d properly understood this statement, so he endured an uncomfortable silence trying to think of something to say.

  Morris threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, you’re speechless, eh, Cantwell? Well, I hope that won’t last for long. I’m hoping you’ll be making lots of speeches soon. Captain Bonia tells me you’re quite the talker and can spin a good yarn. I’ll wager you were doing most of the talking at that table out there before I arrived and stole your thunder.” Morris chuckled at this, took a quick sniff and, finally, swallowed a nip of the brandy.

  “I like to have a laugh,” William said, thinking immediately how undignified that sounded. But Morris found nothing wrong with the statement; indeed, he did William one better.

  “What’s more,” he said, “you like to laugh at yourself.” He jabbed a finger at William. “The Irish character approves of a man who can do that and there’s no district on the island more Irish than this one; nor Catholic either, for that matter.” Morris thrust a meaningful finger at him. “You’re going to have to step up your attendance at church, at least while you’re still living here. Once you get to St. John’s you can do as you please.”

  This flurry was also a little too much for William to take in, though he noted the assumption that he’d already accepted Morris’s proposal. But Morris surprised him by continuing with a note of humility.

  “You’ll be doing me and the country a service if you accept this offer,” he said.

  “But why me, Mr. Morris?” William asked. “I don’t have a scrap of political experience. What makes you think I can win a seat for you here?”

  Morris quickly grabbed the upper hand again.

  “You’ll win because you’re on my ticket, Cantwell, make no mistake about that. But I think you’re the right man for the job because of the work I hear you’ve been doing this last number of years.”

  William thought the surprises would never end. “Do you mean my efforts at prospecting and farming?” He laughed a little self-consciously.

  “Mining and agriculture, Cantwell. From now on it’s mining and agriculture. You’re the only person in this area – hell, practically in the whole country – with wide experience in both fields. Now,
you should know that a key plank in my platform is the addition of several branch-lines to the railway.”

  William was aware of this and of the heavy criticism that had been levelled at the idea by Bond and the Liberals, who felt it would be an unnecessary drain on the public purse.

  “The people are crying out for those branch-lines, Cantwell, and I intend to build them no matter what the cost. I need you to talk about the mineral wealth of this country and how an expanded railway system will give us access to it. Plus, everyone seems to be interested in agriculture these days and you’ve got that covered, as well. The Liberals haven’t got a man with your experience in either field. Now, we’ll shout it from the rooftops that if you win this seat I’ll make you my Minister of Mines and Agriculture. That should make you a shoe-in on my ticket. I’ll go out with you on the first few campaign stops and show you the ropes. Then you’re on your own. Okay, Cantwell?”

  “I’m ready to serve my country, sir,” William said, “if you’ll have me.” He pleased himself with this high-sounding reply, but Morris again brought him back to earth.

  “Shame we can’t do anything about your name, though, isn’t it? Cant-well? Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it? The last thing we want is some nasty little slogan cropping up: William-Can’t-Very-Well, or some such thing. Hopefully, nobody will notice if we don’t draw attention to it. Still, you’d do well to go by William, or Will, or even Willie; cultivate the common touch.”