Well, he thought, standing up and looking out the window at the traffic of the main gate, old wars bring new battles. His interest in the Newfoundland political situation stemmed from ideas that had slowly taken shape since his arrival. He was no political scientist, but he knew that Newfoundland couldn’t support all the democratic trappings of old and remain independent. Control had to be as tight and vigorous as he ran the guard. Joining with Canada or the United States was surely a betrayal of their heritage—and why should they? Sovereignty should not have a price; he sympathized with the Newfoundlanders who wanted to fight for it.
But then he thought of LaRosa’s words about successful mercenaries. Was that really the base of his interest—to influence history and reap the rewards? He couldn’t honestly answer that question. The idea of the crown was surely not academic. Economics hardly entered his head.
The telephone jangled, and he jumped. “MacQueen here,” he answered abruptly. It was Commander Marchand.
“MacQueen, I’ve had a call from Captain D and everything is squared away. I just wish that you would keep me in the picture and not spring surprises on me. I’m easy to get along with as long as I know what’s going on. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“I received a signal from Ottawa today, sir. The captain arrived safely.”
“Oh?”
“It was personal, sir, but I thought you’d like to know. He seems ready for the fray.”
“You mean the elections, of course. Well I’m glad he’s in trim. He was looking rather poorly. Now let’s keep coordinated, right?”
“Aye, sir.”
He hung up and smiled. Hemming knocked. “MacDonell, the corporal of the dockyard guard to see you, sir.”
MacQueen collected his thoughts. “In a moment, Hemming. Did the PO submit a list of prospective escorts yet?”
“Yes, sir. It’s on your desk.”
MacQueen searched for a moment and found the pencil-scrawled list. MacDonell was not on it.
“Right, send him in, Hemming.”
Ordinary Seaman Robert MacDonell had showered, cleaned his boots, and donned his best rig. The square collar was just slightly faded, but all else was regulation and gleaming. He stood at attention with his cap off.
“At ease and take a seat, MacDonell. We’re going to continue our chat.”
The boy seated himself, sitting erect and leaning forward, his cap dangling in his hand.
“Frankly, Timmons is going to the shore patrol and I require a new escort. Would you be interested in the job?”
“Yes I would, sir,” answered MacDonell without hesitation.
“It’s not an ordinary job. You are on parade all of the time. Also, you will be with me a lot and, despite this, you must always be correct. Sometimes this is hard, as I’m not always on parade. Do you understand?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Irregular hours don’t bother you? You have no—ah—commitments?”
“No, sir.”
“The job is covered by naval regulations and has certain advantages. I don’t know why they think guard officers so precious, but maybe they didn’t envisage anything quite this extensive.”
MacDonell looked politely at MacQueen, obviously not comprehending a word. MacQueen knew the sensation when things happen suddenly and one shuts off. A matter of overloaded circuits, or something.
“Right. Who do you recommend for your job on your watch at the dockyard?”
“Can I think about that, sir? I’ll have a name in an hour or so.”
“Good man. Give it to Hemming and he will refer it to your watch officer.” The boy stood erect. “That will be all then. We’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. Hemming will brief you on the routine, and I am glad to have you with me.”
MacDonell’s face was beaming as he left the office to report to Hemming and get his instructions.
Checking his appointment book, he noted: Mary: 6 p.m. for O’Briens. It was now 1600. He decided to wrap up and head for home and a bath. Hemming knew how to handle any queries. “The officer of the guard is on rounds,” he announced. No one could check that. The evening promised to be a busy one.
82
Mary Patouf lived in one of the adjoining old houses on Military Road that looked desolate on the outside yet are not without charm within. Her father had been a luminary in the last elected government and her brothers were professional men, now married, with homes of their own.
Mary worked for a lieutenant commander in the Officer’s Records office at Naval Headquarters. MacQueen had met her when he was first set ashore in St. John’s following his meeting with Captain D. He smiled at the recollection. He had entered her office and noted the well-bred young lady behind a desk. Over his shoulder he carried his duffle, with his name stencilled on the strap. “My name is MacQueen,” he had announced, still angry over the shore appointment. “So I notice,” she replied with a smile, glancing at the strap. That had broken his tension. They laughed and became friends.
Mary was an educated innocent and had quietly fallen in love with the tall Canadian, seeing in him an ideal. MacQueen’s attitude had been affectionate, to a degree, but hardly suspecting that his little Newfoundland friend spun dreams of marriage and happiness forever in her pert head. Never wishing to hurt anyone, he still attempted to convey, through good manners and thoughtfulness, much more than he ever intended.
Mary had been hurt, this he knew. Now she had taken the initiative, and he silently prayed that the dance wasn’t going to start all over again. The idea of surrendering even a part of himself seemed cloying now, and he shuddered. Keep it on the surface, he muttered to himself.
He hadn’t seen her for ages, he realized, as the car pulled up in front of her house. Not since her father had died. He pressed the bell and an ancient maid answered the door.
“Come in, sir,” she said, smiling coyly. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, Martha,” answered MacQueen, taking off his cap and stepping into the hall.
“Just go right in to the fire, sir. Mistress Mary will be down shortly.”
MacQueen entered the room he remembered well, with the painting of George III dressed in an ermine cape over the mantel. The coal fire glowed warmly and he stood with his back to it. He recalled Ballydo and the Honourable Kathy Leinster’s remark about men’s need to warm their bums by the fire. The door opened to reveal Mary’s mother, tall and gracious. “Pat, my dear boy,” she said, advancing to him and turning her face to be kissed. “You have allowed yourself to be missed. Let me fix you a drink, it’s so chilly. Mary will be here shortly.”
“It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Patouf. I read about your husband. I’m sorry, he was a fine man.”
“The months that pass help one to forget a bit, dear boy. You like rum and ginger ale, as I remember?”
“You have a good memory indeed. Will you join me?”
“Just a little one, I think.” She looked at him with a trace of mischief. “It’s good for my heart, you know.”
She handed him the drink just as Mary entered, dressed to leave, with a fur piece around her throat and a jaunty fur hat tilted over one eye. She smiled widely, but her hand was cold and trembled as he took it.
“Hello, Mary. You look smashing.”
“Hello, Pat. It’s nice to see you in this room again. Can I join you and mother for a wee nip?”
“Of course, dear. Here, take mine,” offered her mother. “I haven’t touched it. I’ll have one later, as I must go to the kitchen and check with Martha.”
“It was nice of you to come, Pat. It mightn’t be exciting, but dear old Mrs. O’Brien constantly asks about you. She feels quite bereft and deserted.”
“Other than that, she and Catherine are well?”
“Oh, quite well. Catherine loves to run the household—and Mrs. O’Brien, as you know. Anyway, there will be a few others tonight. Y
ou’d better have another. We have time, and heaven knows how many drinks you’ll get before dinner. Catherine is such a prude.”
“No, that’s fine. My car’s waiting and we don’t want to advertise our romance too much, lest any rumours get started.” He hesitated the moment the joke was out of his mouth, hating the sensation of being on an emotional spot. He confused even himself at times.
She looked at him with a flicker of hurt in her eyes, then recovered her trademark smile and said, “You are so funny.”
He flushed for a second under her direct and appealing gaze. “Shall we go?” he finally asked, looking at her forehead.
“Of course—yes. Let’s go.”
He opened the various doors and settled her into the back seat, climbing in and giving instructions to his driver. “We could easily have walked,” Mary said. “It’s only a step or so.”
The O’Brien house was on Rennie’s Mill Road near Rawlins Cross, a vast antique pile with wide steps leading up to the entrance. They had made their fortune in fish, of course, but those days were long gone. Mrs. O’Brien was now a widow. Her two sons lived in England, and her niece Catherine ran her affairs, assisted by a chauffeur, a cook, and a couple of maids.
The large glass door was opened by a young maid, whom MacQueen presumed to be the parlour maid. She curtsied prettily and took his cap and gloves. Catherine swooped into the hall to welcome them. Her hair was severely upswept and her ears sparkled with her aunt’s jewels. She held her arms open.
“Mary, my dear, how nice of you to come.” They embraced with no enthusiasm. “And Lieutenant MacQueen. It’s been so long! Mrs. O’Brien will be delighted. Do come in. Everyone is here. You may know them all anyway.”
The dowager Mrs. O’Brien was sitting in a high-backed chair in front of the marble fireplace, angled so that the light from the gigantic chandelier fell behind her. She had a pearl choker and other strings of pearls, with jewels on her fingers, and carmine lipstick. She held out a hand regally. “Mary, you’ve brought that naughty young man who deserted all of his friends. I shouldn’t even speak to him. Do come over, girl. Ah, there you are, you scamp!”
MacQueen went to the elegant old lady and took her hand.
“I live once more now that I have seen you, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said with a smile. She withdrew her hand and held it up dramatically as though to slap him, but smiled in return.
“You men are such thieves,” she said. “You steal our hearts, vanish, and then return to steal them again. Robbers, all of you.”
“I’m sure he protected your heart well in his absence, Mrs. O’Brien,” said a familiar voice. MacQueen was mildly surprised to see LaRosa moving towards him with an outstretched hand. “We’re mostly Irish here, MacQueen, one way or t’other. How are you?” He bowed to Mary and beckoned to another couple at the far end of the fireplace. “You’ve met Mr. and Mrs. Duncan-Fisher, I hear?”
“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Duncan-Fisher, tall, vague, and groomed. “How is your sweet mother? She’s such a dear.” Her husband offered his hand, which was damp and limp. “Glad to see you again, MacQueen. Hello, Mary. You look charming.”
The young maid reappeared with a tray of cocktails and passed them around. “Can’t I have one of those, Catherine?” asked Mrs. O’Brien petulantly.
“Now dear, doctor’s orders, you know.”
“Oh fie!” she answered. “Doctors, how I hate ’em!”
When Catherine left the room MacQueen suddenly felt Mrs. O’Brien’s gnarled hand on his. He relinquished his cocktail, and she downed it in a gulp, leaving the olive. She passed the empty glass to him with a wink. It happened so quickly that he barely mustered a smile before she looked away to talk to Mary. MacQueen moved to LaRosa and Duncan-Fisher, whose wife was examining various antiques hanging on walls or encased in cabinets.
“I am really English despite our friend’s comment,” explained Duncan-Fisher. “But my wife is a Newfoundlander through and through. I only work here with the government. Everything seems on the verge of change. LaRosa here tells me that you have some ideas on the subject.”
MacQueen glanced at LaRosa quickly but he was gazing intently at the intricate ceiling. “Well, yes. I hate to see people lose their traditions I suppose, and Newfoundland seems to be going down the drain by default.”
“The only counterbalance to that fellow Winterwood are the merchants,” commented Duncan-Fisher. “But they are in a state of apathy. I know ’em all. They don’t know where to move. I’ve heard of stirrings, of course, but second-rate people in comparison. The money is with the Water Street gang. Their fathers or grandfathers would do something, but the present ones have lost their will to survive.”
“What about the average Newfoundlander?”
“No Newfoundlander worth his salt wants to become a Canadian or an American or anything else, and that’s the truth!” interjected Mrs. O’Brien vehemently. “I don’t care what he does or where he lives, he wants to remain a free Newfoundlander, not some sort of hybrid. That Winterwood-barrel-person hasn’t a chance!” She snorted with indignation. After a tense pause, she continued: “…And think of the taxes we’d have to pay as Canadians! It’s disgusting!”
“Dinner, everyone,” called Catherine, standing under the high archway that divided the dining and drawing rooms. MacQueen was surprised to notice LaRosa’s eyes on her in admiration.
Mrs. O’Brien gathered her stick from the floor and grabbed MacQueen’s arm. “You’re the handsomest man here,” she said. “Mary, I’m stealing him from you for dinner.” They led the way, with the others following, and Mrs. O’Brien placed him at her right. The chauffeur had been pressed into service, awkward as he was, but Catherine had to carve the roast herself on a sideboard beside her. A cocktail was set before each person except Mrs. O’Brien, who had a half goblet of ginger ale. Many candles were on the table, and another giant chandelier was overhead, dark and somewhat menacing.
“Thank God for the vittles,” quoted Mrs. O’Brien as grace, then the servants and food commenced to circulate. Catherine rose to check the heater under the roast, and Mrs. O’Brien’s hand shot out for MacQueen’s cocktail, which she dumped, olive and all, with a slight plop into her ginger ale.
“To continue our conversation,” said Duncan-Fisher, spooning his soup gracefully, “what we need is a leader. Or I should say a leader is needed, for I am neutral, of course.”
“Ha ha,” chorused his wife.
“Well, officially, anyway. I cannot be involved. However, I can say that your initiative, Lieutenant MacQueen, has percolated up the pot.”
“He’s part Newfoundlander,” said Mary.
“But I couldn’t do anything like that,” said MacQueen. “I’m still an officer in the navy, and a Canadian!”
“Of course it’s all under the crown,” added LaRosa from a distance. “However, I do agree. Lieutenant MacQueen could be a catalyst of sorts. Possibly even more, but he is unknown to most of the island, after all, and time runs out.”
“That Major Coshing is a disgrace!” said Mrs. O’Brien, waving her untouched soup plate away. “His father, good Sir John, would turn over in his grave. The man would do better to shut up. They’ll think we all behave like that!”
The joint was carved and served on warm plates, with the chauffeur and maid serving vegetables. “Do have another cocktail, Lieutenant MacQueen,” urged Mrs. O’Brien. “Catherine, give Lieutenant MacQueen a good strong cocktail. He’s a sailor, and my father used to say that they had to rinse their guts out with rum at least once a day!”
“What does the Commission of Government say about all of this?” asked LaRosa.
Duncan-Fisher raised one eyebrow and twirled his glass by the stem. “Neutral also, I’d judge. What can they do? Three English and three Newfoundland civil servants under a stone-deaf English admiral for governor! Hardly inspiring.”
Plates were cleared and coffee served. Small talk and local gossip commenced, with Mrs. O’Brien becoming ev
en more direct as the evening progressed. They rose and returned to the drawing room, where MacQueen at last managed to drink a brandy as Catherine sat herself near Mrs. O’Brien and refused to budge. LaRosa opened the piano and began to play softly, humming an accompaniment.
“Well, if you are party to our local games, MacQueen,” murmured DuncanFisher, leaning over and rumpling his stiff shirt, “I’d suggest you talk to the governor’s aide, Lieutenant Goodman. Do you know him?”
“Not well.”
“Fair enough. He knows more than he has ever let on, I feel, and he has her ladyship in his palm as she has His Excellency in hers. Not a ménage à trois or anything like that. He’s a musician, which might account for his charm.”
“A Newfoundlander?”
“Oh my, yes, but just recently returned from the Far East somewhere.”
“What exactly should I be speaking to him about?”
“It would be useful to know who’s backing Winterwood. He’s getting incredible support from somewhere. Ottawa? London? Washington? But why? The war is almost over and Newfoundland will be an enormous liability for years. We want an independent Newfoundland, if I can drop my neutrality for a moment—entre nous—but what is their game? We know Winterwood’s game. He just wants power—and would sell his mother to get it.”
“The plot thickens,” muttered MacQueen.
Duncan-Fisher rose, stubbed his cigar, and beckoned to his wife. “It’s getting late and I’m a working man, dear,” he said with no affection.
After they left, Mrs. O’Brien suggested a rubber of bridge. Catherine cleared a table and produced some cards, which they cut, and MacQueen found himself partner to his hostess. Mary and LaRosa made the other team, while Catherine supervised the cleaning up.
“That Duncan-Fisher is well named,” commented Mrs. O’Brien, sorting her cards. “He’s a cold fish.”
“Most Englishmen seem to be,” added LaRosa. “I bid one no trump.”
“I pass,” said MacQueen, half-distracted by Duncan-Fisher’s suggestion of a talk with Lieutenant Goodman. It could be a conversation worth starting, MacQueen thought.
The Broken Sword Page 40