by Paul Almond
“Well Tommy and Tessa,” I said as we bundled them, crying again of course, into their special box on the komatik, “we’re off on a wonderful adventure.” But my heart was still perturbed, for I wondered what on earth I could do with them.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, with the parsonage barometer rising and the thermometer dropping, we could expect a spell of good but very cold weather so we would have to watch for frostbite. Clayton and I set off toward St. Augustine, me driving and Clay behind, watching over our precious cargo. I steered the dogs carefully, staying mostly out on the flat gulf ice, rarely following any trail over capes or twisting forest trails. This made the going slower, but in some ways more enjoyable, for we had no fear of sliding or capsizing.
The wind had swept the ice clear for a good patch and we fairly zipped along. Again as during the past week, my mind turned to arriving at Aunt Minnie’s with the twins. What would she say? Of course, she was too elderly to care for them herself. Then what about Lorna — how would she take this whole situation? I felt she could be relied upon to care for them for a few days while I tried to find some other home. But I knew only too well that most of the inhabitants had laid in just enough stores to feed themselves until spring breakup, no easy job in itself. Now was definitely not the time to burden anyone with two extra hungry mouths. Would my wardens help? Yes, undoubtedly they would spread the word among the parish, but again, based on what I had encountered to the east, I couldn’t see much hope in that either. No way out.
I put the worry out of my mind and made myself enjoy speeding over the ice, passing barren shores, their low grey humps like stranded whales, swept in some places clear of ice, in others grizzled with coverings of low spruce on their granite backs. How lucky was I to have chosen this vocation — or have it chosen for me, as I always said, by the Lord above.
Knowing Clay was behind me keeping an eye on the twins, who were as silent as the passing scenery, I felt secure enough to let my mind wander. And then it hit me like a blinding flash: Of course! Why had I not seen it before? Spending too much time worrying, oh yes. That couple in St. Augustine who had lost their child — they would welcome these twins. Of course they would. I’d present it as God’s way of saying, Don’t worry, you will be looked after. I was so pleased at my inspiration, I turned and told Clay about it, and he too felt certain that they would be glad to accept.
After a rather difficult night in a spruce wood caring for the children, making a fire, and trying to heat food for their little tummies, we arrived in St. Augustine the next day and went straight to the couple’s house. I had a bit of trouble getting the dogs to avoid the front and draw the komatik up behind, for I wanted to make sure that the happy state in which I had left them still held good and the wife had not lapsed back into her former despair. I walked around to the front door with some trepidation, and knocked.
The husband opened the door, and immediately brightened. “Come in, come in, Mr. John. I knew ya’d be back somehow.” Holding the door wide, he called inside to Agnes. “Look who’s ’ere? Our saviour: Mr. John. Get something together, we must feast him, fer sure.”
I was about to enter into those welcoming arms when I shook myself. The twins — that’s what I came for. I held up my hand and then tore around to Clay behind the house, undoing his charges.
“Grab Tessa.” I picked up Tommy, trying not to be too rough in my haste, for I was anxious to bring them around. We hurried to bang again on the door and, as it opened, we presented our twins. They both stared in amazement.
“Look what the Good Lord has brought you,” I cried. “You were not forgotten. When a single grain falls into rich soil, it yields abundantly,” I said, misquoting the Bible slightly. “He has given you a set of beautiful but abandoned twins that anyone would be proud of. Two in place of one.”
The twins were too befuddled even to cry. We set them on their feet and knelt to undress them, while husband and wife looked at each other, and then, to my delight, began to smile. “I told ya, Aggie, what’d I say? Good Mr. John, he has an answer fer everything.”
Well sir, what a celebration we all had! The twins did look delightful, dressed in presentable outfits that Gene had scrounged for them at St. Paul’s River. I almost wished they were my own. Fred and Agnes set about feeding them, talking excitedly how they would care for them, where they would sleep, and making all sorts of plans.
I had struck gold.
Well, of course, I couldn’t wait to break the news to the Martins. They were pleased and promised that the parish would rally around with extra food for the couple and see the family well taken care of the rest of the winter. “He’s a good man, Fred is,” Mr. Martin said. “I warrant you, those twins will have the best home ever.” And with that, we decided to relax for the rest of the afternoon. With my sense of accomplishment, I even gave myself leave to take a little nap in the corner before dinner while Clayton went off to see his cousins. We arranged to leave the next day after a proper church service, for which Clyde Martin assured me he could gather a good flock.
In the morning after a fine service, Clay turned up and I could see he had hardly slept the night before. In fact, when he took off his coat to have a bite, I saw decided traces of spruce gum. Hereabouts that meant only one thing: dallying in those log wigwams that graced almost every home on the Canadian Labrador. The local custom was to stack logs like tepees so they shed water easily; their interiors formed a kind of shelter, often for the dogs, or more especially for couples who were “having a sneak.”
I said nothing. After a good midday meal, we set off westward toward home on the last leg of my eastern pastoral trip, roughly two days to Mutton Bay. I was driving and soon turned to Clayton. “I don’t know what you were up to last night, but I hope you haven’t endangered your immortal soul for a few minutes of gratification.”
Clayton was clearly taken aback. After speeding merrily along, for the day was bright and the glass low, around minus twenty-five, I heard the words, “Look who’s talking about his immortal soul!”
I was struck with such horror that I called the dogs to halt and leapt off the komatik. I faced the young rascal. “Just what did I hear!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. John. I must’a spoke out of turn.”
“But what were you talking about?”
Clay looked down at his feet, not knowing which way to turn. “You got a good idea, I bet.”
“I most certainly do not have any idea!”
“You and that maid you rescued from that ship.” The thought struck me like a thrown rock. “All the fellas in the school talk about it. She’s one pretty biddy. Everyone’s clear on that, and you bein’ one lucky fella. You got yourself a good looker, fer sure.” He glanced up to see if this had made a better impression. “You can’t try to pretend otherwise...”
“Pretend! And what would I pretend? Our relationship is perfectly proper. I cannot think where these rumours emanated.”
“That night in Mutton Bay, when you was mummering. It weren’t so proper that night, I heard.”
I stood thinking. Good heavens, when I brought the poor girl home? Oh of course, they would imagine what took place thereafter. Well, what else would young lads think? I allowed myself to relax. “If that is all, Clay, I can promise you that nothing untoward took place that night. Or any other night. She was a little tipsy and I had to take charge, only to make sure that nothing did happen to her. But that was all. Our relationship is, I guarantee you, perfectly proper.” Imagine! The little whippersnapper putting me on the spot, when it was he who deserved reprimanding.
Of course, gum on the backside is no proof neither. The only thing to do was let it all blow away into the arctic wind sweeping by as we stood there, the dogs seated obediently, waiting for their next rush.
I put my hand out on his shoulder. “No hard feelings. You did have a right to think the worst. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry I brought the subject up, but you see, as your clergyman, I felt it incumb
ent upon me to mention it. But let us discuss it no more.” For some reason I added, “Don’t think badly of me.”
“Oh fer sure not.” Clay got back on the komatik. “Fer sure, Mr. John, I don’t think badly.”
I climbed on myself, and called to the dogs, only to hear his final words: “But she’s the best looker around these parts, and you being without a wife, we ’spect to hear wedding bells afore the winter’s out.”
Oh Lord, what a thought! Lorna had a way of appearing in my dreams, but for that I could not be blamed. Should my ministry not be my entire focus? But then, I knew Clay would throw at me that Mr. Bishop had gotten married. Oh heavens, better to put these thoughts aside for another day and concentrate on getting us home safely.
By now we’d developed the knack of caring for ourselves, so when night fell, we bedded down in the shelter of some spruce, fed the dogs the last of their seal meat, and made ourselves a little fire on which we melted snow and cooked up a soup of potatoes and dried cod given by the Martins, thereby finishing off our food supplies. Then we rolled ourselves in our blankets and had a good sleep. But before I drifted off, Lorna’s image returned in full force. Of course, I had no fear for her safety. But I wondered how these short winter days and the long dark nights were affecting her spirit. Would she soon be getting homesick? She came from a thriving fishing village on the South Shore of Nova Scotia, filled with activities. Living with Aunt Minnie, doing her household chores, and helping out other elderly villagers, all this might tell upon even the worthiest spirit.
When we awoke, we were greeted with the most ominous sky. Clay was gathering some sticks for a fire, but I looked into the heavens and called out, “Clay, we finished our food last night. And the dogs, too. Look.” He glanced upwards and then, as if stuck in the rear with a great hatpin, he scurried around wrapping our blankets and piling everything into the komatik box. “We’d best make a run fer it, Mr. John!”
Oh yes, run for it we had to, for we both knew only too well from first-hand experience what happened to folk caught with no food and a storm of several days’ duration.
We sped over the frozen waters of the great Gulf of St. Lawrence. The night before I had found my eyes paining, and had gone to bed with a headache; Clay admitted to the same. I remembered something my old father had mumbled about how, at my age, his father had whittled him a pair of Indian spectacles out of a couple of twigs which he tied behind his head with string. They limited the field of vision, giving only a slit to see through, and I resolved that, for my next trip, I would equip myself with these, because that blinding light reflected off the snow had certainly taken its toll. But I kept my mind pretty well focussed on our present problem: how to keep ahead of the snowstorm till we reached Mutton Bay.
Much as I tried to relax and enjoy this last leg of my eastern trip, I couldn’t help running over what I had been told to do when caught by the weather. Clayton seemed unduly preoccupied, too. We kept urging on the dogs, with Clay cracking his sealskin whip. They did respond, I must say, and fairly sped us along but I fear, not fast enough.
The black clouds were gaining: they kept billowing up into the blue immensity of the heavens like giant weather monsters leaning forward as if to pounce at any moment. I kept looking behind until I got a crick in my neck. “We’ll beat her,” said Clayton, more to reassure himself than me.
“I hope so,” I called back.
And at last, as we were about to be torn to shreds by the ever-increasing wind, the familiar cluster of distant houses draped haphazardly over the granite capes of Mutton Bay came into view. What an intense reaction flooded through me. Goodness, how I thanked the Lord for delivering us safely. How much I had missed everyone! I pointed to the village, and Clay yelled back, “Good to be home.”
Nonetheless, that last half-hour seemed endless. The forward fury of the storm struck us, but being this close, I knew we’d make it. And of course, I just could not wait for the sight of Lorna in the doorway when I knocked. Perhaps she wouldn’t be there: more likely she was working at another house. I mean, why hang around Aunt Minnie’s? Though she had always been careful to take care of the home as if it were her own.
At long last, after the blizzard had dropped our visibility down to a few yards, the dogs found Aunt Minnie’s. “D’you know,” I said to Clay as I got off the komatik and tried to brush off the clinging flakes, “my opinion of these wonderful dogs has changed. After that seal hunt, I just thought of them as a bunch of wild animals that had to be beaten into doing our bidding. But now I see them as courageous souls who would stop at nothing to get us to our destination.”
“You’re right,” he shouted into the wind as he went off to pen them. “No finer team around, neither. And that Tuck! No finer lead dog in all Labrador.” I stumbled my way up the drifted steps and banged on the door, perhaps too loudly. I was so excited to see Lorna, and of course Aunt Minnie.
Nothing happened.
I turned away, disappointed.
But then, the door flew open and there stood Lorna. I gasped at how lovely she appeared. She gave a squeal of delight and opened her arms. I went quickly in, closing the door. We hugged each other as though our lives depended upon it.
I had quite forgotten what it was to hold a woman in my arms. What a period of drought I had gone through! I heard her whisper, “I’ve missed you so much, Jack.”
“Me, too,” I admitted.
After a good long emotional hug, she stepped back and I could see there were tears in her eyes.
“What is this? I thought you were happy to see me, and here you are crying!”
At that, she began to laugh. And then I started to as well. The two of us bent over in paroxysms of joy, laughing and cuffing each other.
Clay opened the door, and began to grin. “Lorna, have ya got any store of seal meat for the dogs?”
“Yis yis, lots.” She went behind the stove and reappeared with a goodly portion which she gave to Clay, who went off to feed them, and then make his way to his nearby home.
“I’ve got so much to tell,” I said.
“And so have I.” She went to the stove to boil the obligatory kettle.
I don’t know where Aunt Minnie produced all the food for that wonderful dinner she and Lorna made. Afterward, we sat happily in the glow of the lamp, finishing our many tales. The big news of the village was that a former inhabitant, Phillip Vatcher, had come back from Quebec where he had been working. He had decided to organize a kind of special winter festival, recruiting some of the school children. Plans were under way for what looked like a thoroughly enjoyable Saturday: dog and snowshoe races, pole climbing, all sorts of activities for both men and women. Lorna’s eyes shone. “He’s so full energy is Mr. Vatcher, I don’t know how he finds time, because he’s got three children to look after.” She had already told me that he had lost his wife in an accident in the big city. This implication sailed by me.
“They were hoping you’d be back in time, Mr. John,” Aunt Minnie told me. “And it looks like you are. They’ll be so pleased, because they want you as official judge. And you know what Phillip ’ere ’as done? He appointed Lorna as queen of the festival. None of us ’eard o’ that afore, but it seems a fine idea.”
I looked at Lorna. “Wonderful, Lorna, congratulations! The figurehead of the whole thing!” We’d had such events in Shigawake, but I’d never heard of them spoken about in any reports from the Canadian Labrador.
“Oh yes, and Phil has taken me for rides on his komatik, even teaching me how to handle the dogs. He gave me lessons with his rifle. Oh Jack, he’s such fun.”
I confess I felt jealous. But of course, I didn’t show a thing. So now Lorna had an admirer. And it appeared to be mutual. Well, I told myself, good for her. A fine energetic family man, that’s just what she needs. But then, what would that mean for us?
She must have seen and read the thoughts crossing my face. She reached out across the table and touched my hand. “Jack, there’s nobody in the world li
ke you, you know that.”
Easily said, I thought to myself. And no, I was not at all sure of that. But I did not want to let anything interrupt the flow of good feelings.
Lorna took my hand. “Come.” She rose and brought me upstairs. Then she opened my bedroom door.
There, in front of the bed on the floor lay a lovely, new, thick, hooked rug.
“You made that for me?”
“I did, Jack.” She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Now let’s have no more of this jealousy — I know, I saw it in your eyes.”
Just then, we heard excited knocking below and went down to find Clay barging in. He shook the snow from his coat. “Everyone’s talking about the races, Mr. John,” he said. “I just came by to ask if you’re thinking of driving in the race?”
“Of course not. I’m the judge, Clay.”
“Would it be all right then, Mr. John, if I borrowed our team to race?”
I laughed. “Of course, Clay, and good luck to you. I don’t know how I’ll remain unbiased, if you’re driving our own team. I just hope to heaven you’ll win, for the glory of the parsonage and the church!”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday morning arrived at last: the day of the big races. I found Lorna in a high state of excitement at the prospect. What did that augur for me? And I was also disturbed by a conversation I’d had the previous evening when the couple I had married in October, Howard Gallibois and Gladys, told me a troubling story. Gladys went to church in Red Bay, part of Tabacher, and one Sunday the Roman Catholic priest, Father Poudrier, had taken her aside after the service. She had told him that she was now with child and as agreed with her Anglican husband, if it were a girl it would be brought up in the Catholic faith. That was the practice hereabouts, and indeed in the Gaspé where I came from. Couples in mixed marriages often went to different churches.
Imagine her consternation when the priest gave her a big dressing-down and said that her children would be bastards because she had not married in “God’s church.” She was living in sin and the priest feared for her immortal soul. He even went so far as to say that unless she confessed her willful deed and received absolution, she could not take Communion.