“Mornin’,” he said. “Excuse me, but I need to get cracking.” He laughed at his own pun and followed his words with action.
Victoria rolled her eyes. “Andy gets that pun in every time we have someone new.” She moved along. “After we pull the meat out, it gets passed down and put into those ‘flat-pound’ cans. Takes about three lobster to fill a can.”
She stood beside a long table and indicated the spot next to her. “Come on, let’s get to work.” She continued talking as she expertly extracted meat from the claws. “They solder the cans shut,” she said, “and then they put them in vats of boiling sea water.”
That explained the heat and mixed hot metal and fishy odor. Maggie watched Victoria. Shot a quick smile at the woman on her other side. Here I go. She gripped a lobster tail and with the pick given her, pulled at the meat. It flew out, hit Victoria and dropped to the floor.
Maggie’s face flushed. “Sorry,” she said and bent to rescue the meat.
“Hold on,” Victoria said, “just leave it. We can’t have it contaminating the rest.” She nudged the meat under the table.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll get the hang of it. Watch and you’ll see. A sideways pull and a flick. Start slow. You’ll pick up speed. We get paid by the number of lobsters.” She extracted lobster meat in slow motion so Maggie could learn. “So speed is important.”
She tried another tail and this time salvaged the meat.
Victoria nodded her approval and kept up her chatter. “After the second cooking in the vats, they label the cans and stack them into wooden crates and ship them off.”
Apparently, that was the end of the information. Silence, broken by Andy’s cracking, settled in the plant. The hours dragged past and Maggie found that indeed she got better and faster with each piece she plucked. But her hands became numb, her shoulders ached, her legs throbbed and her feet begged her to sit down. And the smell remained objectionable. By the end of her shift, exhaustion flooded every segment of her being. She’d never imagined a job could be this tough. Yet, down the line stood a widow lady she knew from church. And she had to be at least fifty-five. Where do I want to be at fifty-five? The answer she got was ‘not here’.
After a chat with Mr. Solomon, she struggled home and collapsed on the settee with her feet up. Eloise joined her. “So, what did you think?”
“My hat is off to the women who work there. It’s bloody hard work. I’ll stick it out for a bit, but Mr. Solomon and I decided it may not be the job for me I’ll give it a two-week trial. He said he’s found that if someone doesn’t adjust to it in two weeks, they never will.” She closed her eyes and rested. “But if I can’t handle it, I have to find another way to make money.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to get married? Or borrow money from Dad?” Eloise asked. “What’s worse? Being married or scrabbling for jobs to pay for yourself? Or paying off a loan to Dad instead of the bank?”
Maggie snorted. “I’d tell you if I knew. There are problems with them all. And to be fair, there are benefits to both marriage and a single life. The question is, do we have a choice? As a little girl, I thought I’d get married. During the war, I worked as a volunteer nurse and thought I’d stay and train properly as a nurse. Especially after James died. But when Mom got sick, I came home. And here I am. On my own, working at the cannery.”
Eloise jumped off her chair and hugged her. “You’re doing great. You’ll be okay. I know it.”
They moved into the kitchen and Maggie put the kettle on for tea.
“But watch out,” Eloise added, “Mom is planning some matchmaking for you.”
* * *
The days dragged by. Early rising, late arrival home and the endless odors and texture of lobster became her world. Her body objected and her stomach held a riot every day. She lasted the two weeks and sought out Mr. Solomon at the end of her shift. “I want to thank you for giving me a chance,” she said to him. “But I haven’t adjusted. This is both my second week and my last.”
“You gave it a fair try,” he said. “Wait a minute and I’ll get your pay.”
Grateful for the money, Maggie straggled home smelling of fish, aching from hairline to toenail and done with the job. Ivan and JM sat on the step, chatting. Daisy lay draped across JM’s lap. He’s charmed even her. Maggie mentally rolled her eyes. And here I am again, once more dressed to kill.” She tucked straggling strands of hair behind her ear. He’ll think I’m always a mess. “I see you introduced yourselves,” she said and stopped in front of them.
JM stood. “I went down to the fish huts,” he said, “and got talking to two fellows and one turned out to be Ivan. We’ve put my things in the house. Hope you don’t mind.”
“We knew which room he’ll be using,” Ivan said. “It made sense to get him settled.”
Maggie, weary to the bone, nodded and stepped around them and into the house. “Give me time to clean up,” she said, “and I’ll make supper.”
“No need,” Ivan said. “We did some work for Charlie Roberts and came home with cod tongues. JM cooked them up and I put some potatoes in the oven. Should be ready soon.”
Maggie turned and looked at the two of them. “You two cooked?”
They both shrugged and started to laugh.
Jokers. Oh goodness, two of them. But the thought of supper already cooked came as a relief.
“Sure we did,” JM said. “Go look. Would we tease you about food?”
Certain they were fooling her, she headed for the kitchen. The aromas confirmed their story before she stepped through the last door. She glanced back to see them peering around the front door jam, laughing.
She shook her head. Cooked food. Oh my goodness, what a luxury. She chuckled while she cleaned up, and laughed aloud as she changed. Maybe JM will be a good influence on Ivan. She added her part to the meal, fetching greens from the garden and tossing them to add a salad to the supper. “Come and get it,” she called and collapsed thankfully into her chair.
Ivan gave the blessing and dug into the salad. “JM gave me a diving lesson,” he said. “I think I’m a natural.”
JM poked him. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m a good teacher.” He ate a bite. “You can return the favor by helping me haul some more boxes into the school.”
“It’ll have to be in the evening,” Ivan said. “I’m starting to fish with Charlie Roberts.” He shot a look at Maggie. “Don’t worry, it’s inshore fishing.”
Maggie’s smile reflected her pleasure in that news. “And you, JM, what are you going to do with your time?” she asked.
“Ramble,” he said, “I think that’s what it’s called. I like to walk, look for different birds and do some sketching. There are lots of places here. I’d like to learn everything about Riverport and area.” He buttered his potato. “And I have to fetch a few more items from back home. And there are meetings scheduled in Lunenburg before classes start. And I like to drive around and look at things, meet people. You know, try to fit in. I’ll stay busy.”
“Sounds like it.” Maggie downed a few of the cod tongues. They had a sweet and salty taste that wasn’t her favorite, but they were free and filling. She’d never figured out why they were called tongues. They were actually a hang-down bit at the back of the cod’s throat.
JM cleared his plate. “Do you go back to lobster shucking on Monday?”
She shook her head. “It turned out not to be for me. I’ll look for something else.”
“What do you do when you aren’t working?” JM asked.
Ivan snorted. “What doesn’t she do? She works the garden and cleans the house, does laundry and knits socks. At the very least. I don’t think she knows how to sit idle.”
“Ivan.” Maggie chastised him. “I’m not that busy. I sit in the evenings.”
“Bah,” Ivan said. “And most evenings you knit, or sew on some item you’re making.” He pointed a finger at her. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Only weeding the gar
den and airing the rooms.”
“And in the afternoon.”
“If you must know, I am having tea with some of the ladies.”
Ivan guffawed. “And are you quilting or hooking this time?”
Maggie stacked the dishes and headed for the sink. “Quilting,” she said. Maybe Ivan was right. She did work all the time. A lot more since they’d moved to Riverport. Her days on the island had not been nearly as busy. She sighed. If only she got paid for all of the work.
Ivan tapped her on the shoulder and kissed her cheek. “At least you take it easy on Sundays. I have to go,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” And she was left alone with John Murdock McInnis. She focused on washing up. He appeared beside her and she jumped.
He picked up the tea towel and started drying the dishes. “Go,” he said when she’d finished the last item, “and sit down. I’ll make the tea.”
Maggie’s mouth gaped open. No man had ever made tea in her presence before. She narrowed her eyes. “You know how to make decent tea?”
He laughed. “I’m a Cape Bretoner, I make darn good tea. Now go and sit.”
She stared at him. Her feet ached, her back pained and her hands were still stiff from shucking lobsters. I should make the tea, I’m the landlady. She opened her mouth.
“Go,” JM said before she could speak.
And giving in to another unknown luxury, she went. The thought from earlier struck her again. This man is not like any other man I know.
* * *
Laughter rocked the room and for a moment all stitching on the quilt stretched in a large frame ceased. Maggie’s exaggerated story of her first day at the cannery had all the women laughing. She stitched along the quilting line and ran her hand over it. Each embroidered square displayed a different floral imprint.
“Marvelous work, Doris,” Maggie said. “This quilt is some beauty.” Maybe this winter she could spend her evenings building squares for her own quilt.
Doris ducked her head. “Thanks. About the cannery. Will you ever go back?”
Maggie considered the question. “It’s good honest work. But I don’t think so.”
“Smart,” a woman said. “It wrecks your shoulders and knees and leaves your hair smelling fishy for weeks after.” She’d obviously spent time at the cannery.
The women laughed. “If it’s not fish,” said another, “it is the sauerkraut. My place smells pungent for weeks in the fall. Let’s face it. Not all our work is as sweet smelling as quilting.”
Maggie fastened her thread and took tiny stitches. “I need to find something to do.” Nursing. You know that’s what you really want. She shushed the thought.
“That big house up behind our place,” said Mrs. Zinck, “is sold. I heard they wanted someone to clean it for them and stay to help the wife. Apparently, she’s expecting her third child and feeling poorly.”
“I heard that he’s some type of a merchant and quite well-to-do,” said another. “They might pay well. Maybe you’d get thirty-five cents an hour if you asked.”
“But I heard they want it for a summer house,” said a third. “Imagine having two houses.”
Maggie kept her eyes on the stitching. “I’ll go and see them,” she said. Housekeeping. Another womanly occupation. Not that she minded. But ever since she’d learned about women not being able to get loans, or take out a bank account without the permission of a male relative, she’d found herself acutely aware of the division of labor as well.
“Do you want to get married again?” Doris asked.
“Doris, don’t be so nosy,” said Mrs. Zinck, chastising the woman.
“She and Will Kaiser were engaged. She’d be married if he hadn’t been lost in the Gales.”
“Doris. Mind what you are saying. You’ll upset Maggie.”
Maggie waved a hand. “It is the truth. What’s done is done.” She chuckled. “And my aunt IS husband-hunting for me.” She held up her needle, sighting at the eye to thread it. “I don’t know the answer. I suppose it depends on who comes along.” She took a few more tiny stitches. “Tell me, since we’re asking nosy questions.” She smiled at Doris to soften the comment. “Would you get married again if you knew then what you know now?”
That silenced the entire crew. One older woman laughed, but it wasn’t a humorous sound. Maggie sneaked looks at the women’s faces as they bent to their task. Smiles lingered around mouths, frowns creased foreheads and one woman looked unbearably sad. Obviously, marriage was complex and seemingly different for everyone.
Maggie sat back. “Let’s look at it a different way. What if I wanted to get married, what do you suggest I look for in a man?” She leaned forward and took three stitches. “I could use some advice, just in case.”
One by one the heads began to nod. Doris spoke up first. “Kindness,” she said. “How he treats his mother, maybe his dog. But kindness.”
“Generosity,” said another. “Not giving everything to everybody, but sharing what he can with his family and friends.”
“Laughter,” said a third. “It’s important he can make you laugh and laugh with you.”
“That’s for sure,” said another and others agreed.
Maggie knew that. Her parents had laughed together often.
“Watch out for the Kinder, Küche, and Kirche men,” said one of the older women. “My grandmother warned me about them. “Children, kitchen and church,” she translated for those who no longer spoke German. “That’s all these men want from you.”
“I think now they say ‘keep your woman barefoot and pregnant.’”
“Or the women’s place in is the home.”
Laughter, tinged with cynicism, vibrated around the table.
One of the older women spoke up. “We cook and clean, we raise the children, tend the gardens and the chickens and sometimes work for extra money. We run the home. But we want to be appreciated. A woman who is appreciated, well, she’ll do right by her man.”
“And,” said one of the younger women, “if they do right by us, we’ll appreciate them.” She chuckled. “It needs to go both ways.”
The woman who had looked so sad earlier spoke up. “I tink da choice is important.” The German accent still present in the older members of the community colored her words. “To marry when is not your choice.” She shook her head. “Is not so good.”
Her speech sobered the group and left meanings beyond her words. “Now,” she said, tucking her needle into the fabric. “I tink it is time for da tea.” She stood and headed into the kitchen. The hostess followed and the sounds of tea making clattered from the other room.
“She’s right.”
“I could use a cuppa.”
“Soon time to finish anyway. The light’s fading.”
Around the quilting frame, women packed their sewing items and prepared to finish.
“A quick cuppa and then I need to go home and get supper started.”
“Did you see the Coast Guard cutter heading out this morning? I heard ‘Machine-Gun’ Kelly is captain. He put a round in one of the boats a while back.”
“Wasn’t that the one he sank and a man drowned?”
“No, I think an American cutter did that. And the crew got put in an American jail. But I’m not sure.”
Maggie listened to the chatter as the women stood and stretched. She could hear the worry under many of the words. There was more than one husband or son crewing on a banana boat. And danger stalked them in several ways from storms to both the Canadian and American Coast Guards. Folding her needles and thimble into her homemade sewing kit, she swept her gaze around the gathering. With all that the women had said about marriage, not one of them had mentioned love.
Chapter Eight
Without a tear or passion
The human heart is low.
Without the heights and depths
Love and pain we’d never know.
Maggie arrived home before either JM or Ivan and prepared a solid meal. Having the boarder cook his own
supper the first night had been no way to run a boarding house. She would make up for it on night two.
JM arrived first and came in through the summer kitchen. He left his boots outside the main kitchen. Ivan must have given him a rundown on protocol.
“Evening,” he said. “Did you enjoy the quilting?”
She chuckled. “Yes. The ladies talked about a wide range of topics.”
“Let me wash up and you can tell me about it.” He went toward the bathroom.
“Hot water in the kettle,” she said and pointed at the oversized one she kept on the hob.
“Excellent.” JM picked it up.
Water whooshed into the sink from the hand pump and trickling marked the addition of the hot water. She set the table, peeked at the beef roast and poked the potatoes before he returned. A solid Saturday night meal that would provide leftovers for Sunday lunch.
“I topped up the water,” he said. He set the kettle in place and lifted the lids on the cooking pots. JM McInnis wasn’t a shy man. “Looks tasty. Do you want me to mash the potatoes?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Maggie said.
“I always did it for my grandmother,” he said. “It’ll make me feel at home.”
That explained his good manners. Living with a grandmother might just do it.
“We do want you to feel comfortable,” she said and laughed, “and I’m not one to turn down help.” Comfortable? He’s fitting in like he’s lived here for years.
Ivan arrived by the time the potatoes were mashed and, grabbing the kettle, did his cleanup. “I have to go out after,” he said over his serving of beef. “Eugene has some cargo to deliver and I said I’d help him. It looks like rain so we want to get it done quickly.”
JM set down his fork. “What kind of cargo does he haul?”
“A mix of things,” Ivan said and kept his gaze on his plate. “Store deliveries sometimes. And he takes passengers to Luneburg or Bridgewater. He wants to earn enough to make back what he paid for his car.”
The Left Behind Bride Page 7