“Patrick isn’t very nice sometimes, is he,” I commented.
“I don’t imagine it’s easy being Patrick,” Aunt Ida said.
I stared at her in surprise. Not easy to be Patrick? With a candy bag in his hand all day long and no chores to be done?
“It must be tiresome being an only child and having all that expectation and attention placed on you. And being overweight. I imagine the children at school tease him. He probably doesn’t have many friends.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but I had heard the boys teasing Patrick. And other than Ernest, I’d not seen Patrick with any friends. In fact, Ernest was Patrick’s only friend. He wasn’t any more popular than I was. I kicked at a stone in the road. Well, I certainly was not going to feel sorry for him. He brought everything on himself by being so mean and miserly. Patrick was a bully through and through. No wonder no one liked him.
We passed the Protestant orphanage and Bertie stopped to watch some boys throw a ball in the yard.
“Can I go play with them?” Bertie asked.
“No, dear,” Aunt Ida told him. “That’s the orphanage. Those children live there, but you don’t, so you can’t go in.”
“I’m glad I’m not an orphan,” I announced.
“You’re very fortunate to have a large family,” Aunt Ida replied. “It would take some doing for you to become an orphan. Some of these children, though, aren’t real orphans. Some have fathers in the war overseas and when the men return they’ll be together again as a family.”
That made me feel a bit better to think the children weren’t all alone in the world.
I grabbed Bertie’s hand and squeezed it tight inside my own. “I’ll play ball with you when we get home,” I promised.
We walked in silence and my mind returned to my own problem. It was like a sore that I wanted to pick and pick at. Would Mam get special permission for me to leave school? And if she did, what would I do?
“Did you like working in the factory?” I asked Aunt Ida.
“It’s not the easiest work, but it pays well. For a woman, that is.”
“Are you glad you don’t work there anymore since you married Uncle James?”
“Sometimes I am, because as I said factory work is hard, but I had a good time with the other girls. I miss that. It gets lonely at home on my own.”
“But you can always visit us,” I pointed out.
“That’s true.”
“Would I like factory work?” I persisted.
“I think you could do better than factory work, Rose,” Aunt Ida said.
“Aunt Helen says I should go into service.”
“Wouldn’t you like to have a typewriting job like Mary?”
I shook my head. “I would have to finish school and then go to a secretary’s school like Mary did.” Just what I needed, more school.
“You should finish school,” Aunt Ida said. “It gives you more opportunity. I often thought I might like to be a nurse, but my father died and my mother was ill. I left school to support her, though she didn’t last too long. You finish school, Rose. Then you can take your choice of what to work at.”
I grimaced. “That’s what Da says.”
“He wants the very best for you. All of you.”
I sighed. It seemed all the adults in my life wanted me to finish school. Why couldn’t any of them understand? I could never get a job as a typist. It’d take me all day to write one letter and even then I’d have to go back and fix the spelling a hundred times. When I first started school I had thought I’d like to be a teacher. I had let that dream go in fairly short order, though a stubborn part of me foolishly held on to a bit of it. Right there on the spot, I suddenly wanted to tell Aunt Ida that I’d like to be a teacher, but I stopped myself. It seemed too silly.
“But why go on in school if I’m just going to get married and stay home?” I asked.
“Not everyone gets married,” Aunt Ida said. “And now with the war on and so many men away, the women are doing their jobs. A woman should be able to support herself and not rely entirely on a man. What about your great-grandmother? She must have had to work to support her children.”
I nodded. “She ran a boarding house when she got to Halifax. At first she helped out, but eventually she owned it herself.”
“Every woman should be able to do some kind of work. I think you could be anything you put your mind to, Rose. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Mam had arrived home before us. She slapped pots noisily on the stove and muttered away to herself. “That infernal woman . . . the nerve . . . pigheaded and stubborn—”
She caught sight of us. “Do you know what that—that nun said to me?” she spluttered. Her eyes darted angrily from me to Aunt Ida. “She said . . .” Mam stopped, then turned back to the stove. “Rose, run upstairs a minute and . . .” Mam floundered. “And give your hair a good brush. It’s all wild from the wind.”
I stared at her open-mouthed. I’d had my scarf on all morning and my hair was flat against my head. “But Mam—”
“As I say, Rose,” Mam said.
I slowly climbed the stairs, then stopped. I began a moral fight with myself. I’d promised God I wouldn’t eavesdrop ever again, but these were special circumstances. Surely He would understand that. I needed to know if Mam had got special permission. I sat down on the step.
“That Sister Frances,” Mam said. “She is dreadful. She called Rose . . .” Mam’s voice dropped to a whisper, so I strained forward to hear. “. . . retarded.”
My heart plummeted all the way down to my toes. I’d known all along. Catherine and Patrick had called me that, and I had tried to put it down to them being mean. But to hear Mam say the word made it real. I slowly climbed the rest of the stairs to the bedroom. The Irish Chain quilt still lay on my bed, and I wrapped myself and my misery inside it.
As I sat there, I realized I still didn’t know if Mam had got special permission for me to stay home. Maybe school didn’t even want me back. I hadn’t listened long enough.
I clattered down the stairs and burst into the kitchen.
“Rose,” Mam exclaimed, “you’re dragging that quilt on the floor. You’ll ruin it.”
“Sorry, Mam. I felt a bit of a chill.” And that was true. Sister Frances’s words had left me cold. I folded the quilt carefully and put it on the settee.
I was exasperated to see Winnie, Bertie and Ernest eating lunch at the table with Mam and Aunt Ida. I couldn’t talk to Mam with them there.
“That’s a beautiful quilt, Alice,” Aunt Ida said. “How precious it must be to you, knowing it was made by your mother. And all those small pieces of material. Such a lot of work.”
Finally, Ernest grabbed his bag of school books. “I’m off, then,” he said. He kissed Mam on the cheek. “See you later, twerp,” he told Bertie. “Keep an eye out for snow while I’m gone.”
“I will,” Bertie promised happily. He settled down by the window, intent on catching sight of the first flake.
Winnie wandered over to the settee, sat and spread out the quilt. “Tell us this story, Rose.” She pointed to a light blue square of cotton.
I was about to tell Winnie to go play with her friends, when I realized that after a story she’d leave on her own. On the other hand, if Winnie knew I wanted to speak to Mam, curiosity would make her as hard to budge as a rock.
“Stories are for bedtime,” Bertie said.
I sat beside Winnie and pulled Bertie on my lap. “You are going to bed. For a nap. Now listen, because this patch is from our own grandma’s dress that she had when she was as little as you. She wore it on the ship when they came to Canada.”
Bertie laid his head against my chest as I started the story. “With hundreds of other desperate Irish, Rose and her remaining four children crowded onto a ship bound for Canada. Huddled below deck, the air was foul and there was little room to move. Many people were sick—some with inflammation of the lungs, some with fevers, some close to death and al
l, starving. It was a ship of skeletons, the passengers being nothing but skin and bone. Rose had bought food to keep her children fed on the long voyage, but it soon disappeared, so Rose did without so her children wouldn’t starve. Terrible storms pitched the ship. The wind screamed above deck and great seas washed into the hold, where Rose and her children were locked in for days on end.”
As I told the story, Mam’s warm kitchen darkened, grew cold and damp, and rocked as if tossed on ocean waves. “The baby could not keep food down. She burned with fever. Twenty days into the voyage, she died and was given to the ocean. Now Rose only had three children left—the youngest was our grandma, who was four. To ease their fears and her own, Rose sang to them night after night. After seven weeks, Rose and her three children saw land.” I paused to let the fact that the sea voyage was over sink into my listeners’ heads. “It was Canada. They sailed up the St. Lawrence to a tiny island, Grosse Île, in Quebec. At first relieved to be on firm land, Rose was soon dismayed to learn they would be quarantined on the island, as many of the people on board ship were ill. Rose’s first home in Canada was a small corner of a crowded stone shed.”
My words fell into the silent kitchen. I drew in the fragrant smell of bread, and the room stopped its heaving and brightened.
Aunt Ida drew a shaky breath. “It’s uncanny the way you tell a story, Rose. I almost feel like I’m there. It’s a gift, Alice, that’s what it is, and if those nuns at that school can’t see that . . .” Aunt Ida shook her head.
“Winnie, would you take Bertie up and settle him for a nap,” Mam said. “Then you can go play.”
Aunt Ida got to her feet and pulled on her coat. “I better be seeing to my own house,” she said.
Then there was just Mam and me in the kitchen.
“Did you get special permission?” I blurted out.
Mam looked bewildered. “What special permission?”
“To let me stay home. To not have to go to school anymore. If you tell them you need me at home, I can get special permission to leave school.”
“Oh, Rose,” Mam said. “You know your Da won’t let you leave school. You shouldn’t have pinned your hopes on that.” She stood and gathered the dishes. “I’ll help you with your spelling. We’ll show Sister Frances what a good pupil you are.”
I stared at Mam in disbelief. But I’d asked God to let me stay home.
“Mam,” I said, “does God really answer people’s prayers?”
A terrific thump from overhead took Mam to the bottom of the stairs.
“What is all that noise up there? Winnie, I told you to put Bertie to bed.”
“I am, Mam, but he keeps getting out. I’m trying to hold him in.”
“I’ll go help Winnie.” I got up wearily from the table.
“Rose.” Mam’s voice stopped me. “Yes, He does answer people’s prayers, but not always in the way you expect.”
Chapter 10
I woke early Thursday morning, even before Mary got up to catch the morning car. A crack in the curtains showed the beginnings of a rose-pink dawn, though a silver night star still shone bright. The scent of sausage, eggs and potatoes frying made my stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten much supper the night before. I could hear the low rumble of Da’s and Fred’s voices as they ate breakfast. I untangled Winnie’s legs from mine, but stayed in bed despite my hunger. I didn’t want to see Da. In fact, I hadn’t spoken to him all last evening. I knew he was hurt, but I was afraid if I opened my mouth all my anger would pour out.
I heard the outside door open, a flurry of goodbyes, then quiet. I crawled over Winnie’s sleeping body and widened the crack in the curtains. Da and Fred strode down the street to the rail yard, lunch pails swinging at their sides. Da suddenly shot a look over his shoulder at the house, like people do when feeling watched, but I quickly drew the two halves of the curtain together and sank back onto the bed.
“What are you doing up so early?” Mary stretched and yawned.
“I have to go to school,” I told her.
“You go to school every day, but you’re not usually up this early.”
I shrugged and left the room. I didn’t want to talk to Mary today—Mary who only had time for Horace and his Roadster. In the kitchen, Mam sat at the table with a cup of tea in front of her. Kettles of water steamed gently on the stove.
“I thought you were Mary,” Mam said. She stood up, took her cup to the stove and refilled it, then took down a second cup and poured tea for me. “It’s such a fine day out. Good to do the washing.”
I flopped into a chair across from her. “I could stay and help.”
“You have school, my girl,” Mam said firmly. “I know it seems like forever you have to go, but it’s really just a short time. You’ll be all grown up before you know it, with your own house to keep.”
I grimaced to show her what I thought of that idea, then slurped my tea just for good measure.
Mam laughed. “You’ll see. Things change quickly in life. Sometimes in a minute it seems. Now, would you run and tell Mary to hurry herself, or she’ll be late for work. Then you can pull Winnie out of bed for school.”
I passed Bertie on the stairs, his eyes and legs heavy with sleep as he bumped down step by step on his backside. “Tell me a story, Rose?” he asked hopefully.
“Stories are for before bed, not when you get up,” I told him.
As I climbed the last few steps, I wondered if Great-grandma Rose had had days when even her bones felt tired. Probably. On the sailing ship to Canada, she woke each morning to hungry children, the stink of hundreds of unwashed passengers and endless ocean. Grandma had told me how awful it was: awful enough for her to remember, even though she was only little.
As I went into our bedroom, I wondered if Great-grandmother Rose had wished she had a dove the way Noah in his ark had. She could have sent it out to find Canada, so she could get off the boat. My brain told me her troubles were worse than mine, but I couldn’t help but feel adrift on my own flood of misery. I wished I had a dove.
And what about Noah? I flung myself on my bed and watched Mary rush about with hairbrush and pins. Noah must have been sick of those animals after forty days of living with them. Did he despair each time his dove came back, its feathers wet? But then, one day the dove had a green leaf in its beak. Hope. I shook my head despondently. Maybe in Bible stories that’s how it was, but not for Great-grandma Rose—and not for me. I still had Sister Frances to face this morning. I glanced at the small cross over the bed I shared with Winnie, then averted my face. I saw no point in saying my morning prayers. I shook Winnie to wake her.
In the kitchen, Ernest filled Mam’s washing machine with the now hot water. “Hurry up, Winnie,” I urged. Usually it was me who dawdled, but this morning Winnie couldn’t find her school slate.
Suddenly the kitchen door burst open with such a bang that we all jumped. The stove hissed as Ernest spilled water from a kettle.
Patrick rushed in, then bent in half, his breathing coming fast. He gripped the side of the door to hold himself upright. He must have run all the way to our house—and Patrick never ran.
“What’s the matter?” Mam asked, alarmed. “Is your mother unwell? Granny?”
“Ernest,” he gasped, “two ships collided in the harbour. Smoke and flames everywhere.”
“Wow! Can I go see, Mam?” Ernest asked. He grabbed his coat and slapped his cap on his head, and was out the door before Mam could say yes or no. Through the half-opened door I heard shouts and yells from the street.
“Can I go, too, Mam?” Winnie shoved her arms hurriedly into her coat.
Mam shook her head. “You’ll make yourself late for school.”
“Aw, Mam.” Winnie deflated like a balloon. “Ernest gets to do everything,” she whined.
“School is more important. There’ll be other fires,” Mam told her.
“I’ll be right back, Winnie.” I ran upstairs with an old shirt of Fred’s that Mam had pulled from the wash and pronounced
only fit for the rag bag. I tugged open the lid of the chest and stuffed it into my bag of patches for my quilt. I would cut a piece from it later.
I lingered at the window, drawn by the tower of black smoke rising straight into the sky with no wind to carry it away. With effort, I dragged my eyes away and went downstairs.
I gave Mam a quick peck on the cheek. “Come along, Winnie,” I called. I didn’t want to start the day off in Sister Frances’s bad books.
The street was full of people running toward the harbour. A siren wailed as the fire department’s new motorized truck screamed by.
“Did you see that?” Winnie yelled. She jumped up and down excitedly. “It went so fast.”
Women stood on their steps, drying wet hands on aprons. Men on the way home from the night shift gathered in small clusters to point at the smoke and discuss the collision. Legs pumping, boys raced down the street. The din was incredible. As I neared the corner, I swore I could hear Granny’s chickens clucking, all caught up in the uproar. Granny and Aunt Helen stood in a group of women in the middle of the road, their own beaks going a mile a minute. Grandpa leaned against the milk wagon speaking to Duncan. Winnie ran over to them, and I reluctantly followed.
“Well, little Winnie and Rose,” Grandpa said. “Big doings at the harbour. So many ships they can’t keep out of each other’s path it seems.”
I could tell by the way Grandpa slurred his s’s that he had not stopped to put in his teeth.
“Grandpa. Can I go down to see the fire?” Winnie asked.
“Winnie,” I scolded, “Mam already said no.”
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