by Darrell Duke
The girls burst out laughing at their mother’s droll observation, as the scarf sticks to Watt’s nose. He jumps up snorting, coughing, and cursing. The springs of the daybed squeak, and the iron frame rings out as the heel of his rubber boot slams against it.
The girls take off running through the porch door, laughing their heads off, pretending to do the Lancers as soon as they get outside the house.
“By de Jaysus! I’ll have yeer heads yit! De little fookers!” Watt says, no longer half-asleep.
“Get out, the two of ye, an’ give up yeer divilment. Go find someone to play with,” Ellen bawls out, even though she knows they are long gone down the lane.
Standing outside the back door, John takes off his knitted salt and pepper cap and shakes it at his girls.
“Mind yeer titterin’,” he says, knowing they’re up to no good.
The girls run off without a care in the world, singing a local rhyme in brazen voices at the top of their lungs.
Mickey Bom from up Along
Catches fish in Drummer’s Pond
Sadie fries ’em in a pan
And Mickey ates ’em like a man
After scraping cabbage hash onto a plate for John and Watt, Ellen fills the big black pot on the stove with water to wash the babies’ clothes.
“Them that rears none, rears the best, Mary Briney said,” Ellen says with a little grin.
“If they don’t make ya laugh, they won’t make ya bawl, the wife used t’ say,” adds Watt.
Both are laughing away when Pad Bruce walks into the kitchen. He takes his woollen cap from his head and bids Ellen a grand day. His dark hair flattens against the ceiling.
“Mind yer head on the beams, Pad,” Ellen says with a chuckle.
“Might do ’im a bit o’ good,” says Watt, rising from the daybed. “Might beat a bit o’ sense into ’im.”
They all laugh.
“Comin’ over to see us off, Uncle Watt?” Pad asks, laughing.
“I s’pose I am. I’m sayin’ the Benediction,” shouts Watt. “If ye had any sense, I’d be goin’ wit’ ye. Show ye how t’ fish.”
“Now, Uncle Watt, you knows the women and youngsters needs you more in here, at home.”
“Das true, I s’pose, Pad. Das true. Have Liz got dinner ready?”
“Soon, b’y, Uncle Watt. I’m in Jim Spurvey’s skiff now, and I can’t be long.”
“Here ya go, Mr. Watt, luh, a plate of lovely cabbage hash for ya. That’ll hold ya over till ya gets back to the house,” Liz says, handing Watt the steaming plate of potato, cabbage, and turnip, fried with a piece of fat pork.
“Ya might even find a piece of salt beef in there, Mr. Watt,” Ellen says, winking at the hungry old man. “Who was with ya in the boat, Pad?” she asks over the racket of Uncle Watt wolfing the leftovers into him.
“Mrs. Mart Mullins. She’s gone in o’er the hill t’ see Bridge King. I told her t’ send for Jim, so he should be ’long the once.”
“She’s liable to bust any time a’tall, the poor soul,” Ellen says of Bridge, tut-tutting.
“Yes. I s’pect Jim an’ Bridge will have another young one be the time we gets back next week,” Pad says. “We’ll have lots t’ celebrate with a boatload of fish, Mary Jane Sampson’s birthday, an’ another new youngwan for the community.”
“’Deed we will, Pad. ’Deed we will,” Ellen says. “Poor Mon’s some sick, though. Who’s goin’ in his place, Pad?” she asks.
“Young Michael Mullins.”
“Sure, ’tis his birthday today. He don’t think much of that, now, I know,” says Ellen. “Poor Mon, he’s not the same since poor Johanna died,” she goes on.
“Sure, ’tis only four months ago she passed, Ellen. ’Tis most likely what’s wrong wit’ ’im,” Pad says.
“Yes, an’ poor baby Michael McCue, an’ he not even two yet, livin’ all the way up in Long Harbour wit’ his aunt,” adds Watt. “Not aisey on Mon, eider, I tell ya.”
The three shake their heads at once, tut-tutting and sighing for their friend.
Jimmy Kelly, named for his dead uncle, scuffs past Pad and plops on the chair next to the stove.
“The barrel’s handy filled up,” he pants to his mother.
“Good b’y, Jimmy. We’ll have lots of water for a couple of days now,” Ellen says with a big smile for her boy, kissing him on the head.
John comes down over the stairs with his extra shirt in his hand and kisses Ellen on the cheek. Little Nellie, eight, has been a little sick herself and is just up from a big nap in the front room. She lifts her arms for John to pick her up.
“You’re sick, Daddy. Ya shouldn’t go out in the boat t’day,” she says softly.
John smiles and kisses her on the forehead before gently laying her down on the daybed. He turns away, wheezing.
A quaint voice drifts into the kitchen from the front room.
“Oh, Nellie, honey, one of these days you’ll know them men don’t listen t’ women. And we knows best,” says Gran Kelly. “Have ya got the toutons I made for ya, John?”
“In the trunk, Mother,” John answers.
“Go out to the barrel an’ get yourselves a nice cup of water to wash down yeer bread an’ budder an’ molasses,” Ellen says to her children.
Jimmy springs quickly to his feet and runs past Pad and Watt to the porch.
“I’ll be ’round t’ see how yer makin’ out when the lads are gone, Ellen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Watt. You’re very kind.”
Watt grabs the bib of his cap and casts Ellen a wink and a nod.
“We’ll be lookin’ out the harbour to watch ya leave, John,” Ellen says with a sigh.
John tries his best to avoid the extra displeasure in his wife’s eyes. He nods his goodbyes to everyone. Then his eyes search the ground to pass the awkward seconds.
“Don’t take that salt pork off yer neck, now, till yer throat feels better, mind,” Ellen warns him.
The three men cross the dusty road and make toward the wharf.
Pad and Watt grab the leather handles of John’s homemade sea box and pass it down to John in the boat.
Jim King walks quickly down over the path past Kelly’s house. At the wharf, he flings his brin bag of food and clothes down to Watt. The old man grabs the full sack with one of his big hands and tucks it safely in the cuddy of the skiff.
The six–spark plug engine soon ignites while a thick cloud of black smoke temporarily hides them from Ellen and her children watching from the front of the house. Baby Jack is in her arms. Tom and Dennis stand clinging to her apron, more concerned with their bread and molasses than their father’s leaving. Little Nellie, resting her elbows on the kitchen windowsill, waves to her daddy with her fingers. He’s too far away to see her as the boat putts away.
The buzz of blue-arsed flies gathering over the opened molasses barrel in the porch breaks Ellen’s trance.
“We better get back inside an’ close the door before the flies goes off with the puncheon tub,” Ellen says. “Put the cover back on it now and make sure the spout is twisted in all the way!”
The youngsters do what they are told while Ellen closes the door and goes about her chores.
Chapter eight
The Midwife and Bridge King
The bittersweet scent of newly scythed grass and dandelion blends with the fresh smell of evergreen needles after last night’s showers of rain. A nervous hare retreats from the path of scuffed tree roots and rocks, back to the shelter of thick brush, as Mart Mullins makes her way in over the hill on The Green toward King’s house, near The Neck.
Waiting for the woman to pass, the hare crouches, still as a rock; its eyes shoot lightning-fast glances around the periphery. The forest floor beneath its furry paws is blanketed
with red needles, buds, twigs, and cleverly placed slips set by young boys in their spare time. A dewy spider’s web catches beads of sunlight sifting through the dark branches of the evergreen trees.
A couple of robins land on the path, pecking at crumbs of hardtack scattered from the hole in the corner of Jim King’s brin sack.
The last stretch of the path winds around an outcropping of disfigured trees shaped by the ever-changing winds of the rugged coast. Perforated mounds of dirt show Mart where the ants are, and she lifts her long skirt with both hands, doing her best to step around the nests. While she uses a cane, her steps are quick, but three or four black ants manage to climb quickly over her worn leather boots and onto her legs. She stomps, one leg at a time, to shake clear the ants, then stops to bend over to smack the others. A couple of ants, still moving, are stuck to her legs by their own blood. She quickly flicks them away, wiping the tips of her fingers in grass on the side of the path.
King’s bungalow is small and nestled in the hollow of a meadow kept neat by a couple of sheep. One side of the house rests partially in the shade of old trees hanging precariously off a bank of rocks wearing nothing but a thin layer of dirt and roots. The almost-even natural walls of sod-clad earth surrounding the property may have held a pond long ago. And although it can’t be seen, the ocean cupped between The Neck and The Green on the other side of King’s property is heard clearly. Mart pauses to catch her breath and to watch the masts and sails of the Pauline as she makes her way out into the open water before turning to head into the harbour, where she’ll be loaded with men and supplies.
In her swampy garden, Bridge King is busy untangling the clothes on her line. Her lips pressed tightly on a mouthful of pins, she huffs and puffs, waddling her way along the clothesline strung between an old knotty pine on the hill and an uncut fence post on the other side of the little patch of land.
Bridge’s stomach hangs low. The child in her womb kicks like the devil to get a glimpse of the world. Her tightly tied apron seems to be the only thing keeping her bulging body together. Hens cluck about her feet while a shitty-arsed sheep wearing a yoke strains in vain to get through the rickety fence made of skinny longers.
“Ye’ll be on the choppin’ block before long,” Bridge snaps at the hens, trying her best to kick them out of her way.
“How are ya, me child?” Mart asks with a little laugh to break the tension she knows the pregnant woman is feeling.
“Oh! Mrs. Mart,” Bridge says, startled. “I’ve had better days. Have ya laid eyes on Peter and Francis this morning?”
“They weren’t over our way. Not that I see. A few young ones were playin’ rounders, but n’er sign o’ yer b’ys.”
“They knew their father was leavin’ today, an’ they have to keep ’head of the wood for the week, the little divils,” Bridge says, tut-tutting loudly. “I’m after fetchin’ ’em once already, but they took off again.”
“Ah, they’ll be fine, Bridge, girl. The tide is droppin’ and they’re liable to be gone ’cross The Neck, out to The Isaacs lookin’ for buried treasure,” Mart says with a hint of childhood excitement. “Or perhaps they’re gone to the pools in Billy’s Brook catching prickles. Meself and Roselle will be in there tending to me garden by ’n by. If I sees ’em, I’ll be sure an’ send ’em home. Don’t fret, child.”
“I s’pose, girl,” Bridge says, unconvinced, tossing her head.
Mart walks along the fence, crossing over a trench Jim dug years ago.
“Mind the ditch, Mrs. Mart! ’Tis all right for gettin’ rid of the rainwater, but ’tis the sea water comin’ in behind the house that keeps it filled with auld kelp an’ the like. I’ll see if I can get them little shaggers to clean it out by ’n by,” Bridge says of Peter and Francis while beckoning Mart for a mug-up with swift flicks of her hand. “C’mon!” she says.
Bridge straightens the centre pole, lifting the clothesline as high as possible, out of the reach of the sheep that think nothing of standing on their hind legs and eating a shirt or pair of pants.
As Mrs. Mart nears the garden gate, two grey jays, perched on the posts, hop along the fence toward her before leaping to the ground to snatch a few crumbs from the nervous hens. Leaning on her cane, she lifts the piece of rubber keeping the gate closed and tries her best to slip neatly through the opening and into the garden without the sheep getting out. But it’s too late. One of the dirty animals comes quickly and quietly and, brushing alongside the midwife’s long apron, bolts to freedom.
“Oh, Scared Heart!” Mart bawls out.
“No odds, me dear. It won’t go far. The b’ys will round it up later, if they ever comes home,” Bridge says.
Mart carefully watches Bridge raise one heavy leg after the other to get up over the four damp steps leading to the open door of the porch. The smell of wild roses permeates the warming air as the women stomp on a colourful mat made from thin strips of old clothes, to rid their boots of wet grass and mud. Dust from the mat dances wildly on the shaft of sunlight coming through the small porch window. The heat from the kitchen stove hits them in the face, and Bridge remembers why she was glad to get out in the first place.
In the kitchen, four-year-old Josie rocks her little brother, Billy Henry, while singing quietly.
Little Tom Tit, his wife could knit
And she could card and spin . . .
The baby is barely two and enjoying his late-morning nap.
“Have ye names for the new baby yet?” Mart asks.
“Jim, after his father, if ’tis a b’y,” Bridge says, out of breath and leaning over the rectangular wooden table.
“You sit down, child. I’ll mind the kettle,” Mart says, shooing Bridge toward the daybed.
“Put your brother in the front room, Josie, an’ let yer poor mother sit in her chair before she falls in a pile,” Bridge says, grimacing over the pain in her back. “An’ put the big quilt ’round him, ’fraid he roll onto the floor.”
Little Josie gently slips from the barrel rocking chair and does what she’s told without a sound. The cool canvas is refreshing to her feet, having been next to the hot stove for so long. Mart scolds Bridget while kneeling on the floor alongside the daybed.
“You had no business out on them flakes this marnin’. ’Tis half yer trouble, me dear, ya won’t pay heed.”
Mart has been a midwife for more than forty years. She and her sister, Ellen, attended births with their mother since a young age. When Ellen died as a teenager, Mart continued delivering babies with her mother and then on her own. This morning was spent delivering baby Dorothy Whiffen into the world.
When she wasn’t delivering babies or looking after new mothers and their families, Mart got the dead ready for burial. If someone didn’t have a habit to be buried in, Mart gave them hers to be replaced later by a relative of the deceased. With plenty of plenary indulgences to her credit, Mart is sure she’s guaranteed a safe path straight to heaven.
“Now, Bridge,” warns Mrs. Mart, “yer liable t’ go any day a’tall, so ya have t’ mind yerself.”
“Jim was some nervous ’bout leavin’ me here,” Bridge chuckles, laying back on the daybed, showing no signs of uneasiness.
“Oh, he’ll be all right, dear. The men will take good care of him,” Mart says, laughing. “Now, let’s get ya up an’ into yer chair for a lovely mug o’ tay. I brought buns I baked a spell ago this mornin’.”
Chapter nine
The Sampsons
A brace of rabbits stirs in the wind. They’re hanging on a wire from the half-rotten eaves of a shed. When Maude Sampson’s eyes meet those of the dead animals, she gets the fright of her life. The curved corners of their mouths, with the exception of a few trickles of fresh blood, offer expressions as solemnly unaware as the moment they entered the slips. Although their eyes show no signs of death, Maude has seen enough of this i
n her ten years to know they won’t be going anywhere but in a stew with carrots, potatoes, and an onion.
She picks up a stick and gives the rabbits a few pokes. Just to make sure. Their fuzzy little paws will soon be eight lucky charms for her and whoever else wants one. Their insides will help make the garden soil fertile, giving her family better vegetables.
Maude throws the stick down and adds more Gillett’s Lye to the slow-bubbling animal fat mixed with scalding hot water she lugged from the kitchen stove. The sloshing liquid flicks over the side of the sawed-off wooden tub and onto her apron. She doesn’t bother about the mess. Her work is far from done. She stirs and stirs until the mixture is just about even. In a couple of hours, the contents of the tub will be cool enough to be cut into square cakes of soap.
Maude leaves the yard to help her brother and sister lug kelp from the landwash to the family’s vegetable garden. Scuffing a path with her bare feet through drifts of sawdust and woodchips, the young girl makes her way onto the garden path, toward the daunting shadows of Healy’s flakes.
Charlie Sampson, Maude’s father, is busy making ready what he needs for what could be a long spell at sea. Like Jack Foley, Charlie has fished for the Healys forever, since the Queen of Providence was in her prime. Charlie, like everyone else who borrows food and supplies from Healy’s, hates having his name in that black book alongside sticks of tobacco, packs of matches, sugar, tea, and flour, and other things he’ll need during his time away. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, scratches his full head of thick black hair, and looks around, making sure he has all he needs for his time at sea.
“I’ve got a barrel of salt heads ’board the boat, Mary Jane, girl, but I haven’t got time to bring ’em in now,” he says, cupping his strong, square jaw in his hand, combing his moustache with his index finger. “Next time we’re in, I’ll bring ’em home. They’ll do us the winter.”
“That’s all right, b’y,” Mary Jane says hurriedly, with more important things on her mind. “Oh my, Charlie, b’y, I s’pose you’ll have the crowd in for a time on me birthday next week. I’d better make an extra batch of bread, I s’pect.”