Thursday's Storm

by Darrell Duke

  Charlie says nothing, only smiles, and Mary Jane lights up at knowing he’s already told everyone in the harbour to drop by. He has done that for every birthday of hers since they were married.

  All hands from the community will be by at all hours on the big day. Some will bring a drink while a good many more will come empty-handed and leave loaded. But they’re all welcome, for it’s not every day you turn forty-five.

  Charlie smiles at his wife, putting a sack full of food in a sea box he made about thirty years ago. Besides an extra top-heavy shirt and a pair of knitted stockings, he puts in a breadbox Mary Jane has packed with tea, sugar, milk, tinned sardines, pork fat, and onions. Standing to the drop-leaf table under the front window of the kitchen, she wraps two letters of Beaver tobacco in cloth and puts it in the box. She makes sure it’s near the top.

  Charlie remains quiet, even when the string tied around the crumpled brown paper lets go. Seeded raisins are sent into every nook and cranny of the old box. He tosses his head and lifts his mug, taking a good whiff of his favourite smell: molasses and tea. He shows no sign of being in a hurry with the last couple of drops. He picks up the sea box before much eye contact or words might take place between him and his wife.

  “See ya next week, Mary Jane, girl,” he says, heading out the door.

  “I might be down ’round the wharf, but I doubt it,” Mary Jane says, knowing how little room there’ll be to move there. “Ya never know, though. Good luck.”

  Charlie goes to the shed for his splitting knife and file.

  Mary Jane has always watched her man leave each morning, whether he’s going to sea or just going to the shore to work or chat with the other men. She hates to see him go away, but he’ll always be back home, she prays. The strength of the worn, brown scapular hanging from his neck, if nothing else, will keep him safe.

  The young ones are wound up like watchsprings. Finished most of their morning chores, their raging appetites lure them to the smell of bread baking in the kitchen.

  “One, two, three, four . . . ten loaves,” they count together.

  The tops of the bread are immaculate, shining with butter. Some loaves sit on the table to cool, while others are in the porch where there’s never any heat. The young ones are off their heads over the toutons. The leftover small pieces of dough fried in fat are smothered by a coat of molasses on a plate fresh out of the oven.

  “If only ye were as quiet as yeer fadder,” Mary Jane bawls out.

  By the time she goes back to the window, the lock is back on the shed door and Charlie is out of sight.

  Liz Kelly bursts through the porch door, giving Mary Jane a start.

  “Can Billy come out?” Liz pants.

  “Yes, my child. ’Deed he can. Take ’em all, if ya like,” Mary Jane jokes. “How’s yer fadder, Liz, girl? Any better?”

  “He’s still coughin’ an’ barkin’, but he’s gone down to the wharf with the men, anyway,” Liz says. “Mother’s not too pleased.”

  “Is that right?” Mary Jane asks. “Sure, ’tis no good talkin’ t’ them men, Liz.”

  “That’s what Gran Kelly always says,” Liz laughs.

  “Like two starvin’ gulls, ye are,” Mary Jane says, as Billy and Liz scoff down their toutons and take off out the door and down the lane.

  Mary Jane is barely back to the window when she sees them bolting out from underneath the flakes and running up the road.

  Crossing the road, dragging a cartload of kelp from the beach, an old man sings in a lovely tenor voice, making his way up the steep, rocky path to his home and garden. He turns his head to have a good look at the majestic schooners freshly scrubbed and anchored in the harbour, ready to set sail. “Mind where yeer goin’, ye!” he says to the young ones as they just about knock over his cart.

  Billy and Liz pay no mind to the man and carry on up the road.

  Mary Jane calls out to her son, Arthur, still down on the wharf kicking what’s left of the fish-turned-ball. He obediently gives the tattered fish one last kick, sending it into the murky water around the busy wharf. Crewmen are going to their boats with trunks of personal belongings, sacks of salt and coal, and armloads of firewood.

  Charlie walks down the plank of the Annie Healy, picks up a large coil of manila, and tousles his little boy’s hair. Arthur looks up at his father and smiles, then takes off to catch up with his mother, who is already halfway to Roselle Foley’s.

  “Be good to yer mudder!” Charlie says, but not loud enough for anyone to hear with all the noise.

  Michael Mullins flicks the last of his cigarette into the water, grabs another coil of rope for the Annie Healy, and goes up the plank. Still feeling a bit gloomy over being away from Katie, he’s pretty sure the crew will share their booze with him on account of it being his birthday. He doesn’t crave the drink, but hopes a drop will numb his loneliness; it will dull the image of her fallen face last night when he broke the news that he wouldn’t be around for the next week or so.

  He won’t stew in her absence. Not in the presence of his father, Captain Mullins, or of those older men. He enjoys their company too much for that. This bond, unattainable on shore, has handed him many of life’s lessons—the things that matter, and, more importantly, all the things that don’t. Michael loves to sing. He’ll sing for the men and some of them will sing for him, knowing his great love of song. There’s something about being at sea, with nowhere to go, when the little bit of free time while sailing to the fishing grounds is your own, and it’s there Michael finds his best audience, an audience that cares to listen. Not like those Saturday night parties where everyone vies for the lead role, until the fight breaks out. There’s none of that nonsense at sea, not with this bunch, anyway, and although he’d never give Katie the impression he’ll be okay without her, it’s hard for him to cast aside his silent longing for the moments he’ll get to sing with the sun on his face and the salty wind all around. For Michael, the sea is where he learned his favourite stories and songs, where he learned to do what his grandfather and great-grandfather did to survive here: catch fish. And until he can afford to get to Dublin, he’ll long to be no place else, except by Katie’s side when the work is done for the day and the night is theirs.

  Roselle Foley has been blind since she tripped over a bucket when she was five. She struck her head so hard the sight went from one eye, and two years later she went completely blind. But this hardly slowed her down. Not a bit. Her mother taught her to sew and knit, and, by the time she was a teenager, she was the best hand in Fox Harbour to make and mend clothes. Unable to work on the high fish flakes, Roselle makes a living sewing and knitting, ensuring women and children and men as much comfort as possible while working the land and slaving for fish in a variety of foul weather.

  Down over the road they come. Mary Jane is linked arm in arm with Roselle while Arthur struggles with Roselle’s cloth bag with the wooden handles. Making their way along the busy shore road, men and boys scurry in every direction. They’re making last-minute preparations for the schooners about to sail. Wives and daughters run past with fresh buns and other treats for their husbands and fathers. One woman looks at Mary Jane, smiles, and rolls her eyes.

  “T’anks be to Jaysus he’ll be outta me hair for anudder spell,” she says.

  “I’ll be some glad t’ see the arse of that boat with him on it,” says another.

  “They won’t be gettin’ on like that when they’re home be themselves after a couple of nights,” Roselle is quick to say.

  “I misses Charlie already, sure,” says Mary Jane.

  “Where are we now, Roselle?” Arthur asks, trying to fool her.

  “We’re just past Jim Nowlan’s now,” she answers gently.

  Arthur’s head rolls up toward his mother’s, his face held in familiar amazement.

  Having walked it for half a centu
ry, Roselle’s feet know every bump, dip, and turn in the road. Arthur is astounded and wonders aloud how he’d ever be able to find his way around Fox Harbour, let alone play with his friends, if he couldn’t see.

  “Oh, you’d manage, me child. Same as I do,” Roselle assures him.

  With her free hand, Roselle makes sure to keep her long black skirt from dragging along the dirty road.

  They’re not long in Mary Jane’s house when the kettle is boiling mad. Seventeen-year-old Marianne Sampson pours tea for herself, her mother, and Roselle while Mary Jane takes a plate from the warmer oven atop the stove. If she hadn’t hid the toutons from the young ones, they’d have eaten the works.

  “A bit of fish hash left over from last night, Roselle?” Mary Jane asks.

  “That’d be lovely, me dear.”

  “A piece of rum an’ molasses cake for yer tay?”

  “Yes. All right,” Roselle answers, standing and leaning on the sideboard to eat. “Is there anyt’ing on me apron?”

  “There’s a little spot of tay on yer apron, Roselle,” Marianne answers.

  Without a word, Roselle feels her way along the kitchen wall and out to the water barrel in the porch before Marianne says the tea spot isn’t big enough to worry about.

  Roselle cleans the small stain with a rag she carries in the pocket of her white apron. Arthur isn’t far behind, making sure she’s okay.

  When she comes back into the kitchen, Roselle walks to the far wall where the clock sits on a wooden shelf Charlie made “a hundred years ago,” according to Mary Jane. Opening up the small glass doors of the clock, she feels the hands tell her she has plenty of time for more tea and gossip this afternoon.

  To the relief of Mary Jane’s crowd, Roselle finally sits in the rocker by the stove and digs the heels of her high-buttoned black boots into the seams of the wide plank floor for a good rock. Leaning over to one side, she opens her knitting bag and takes out a big black sweater.

  “This should keep Charlie nice an’ warm,” she says. “P’raps Marianne will run it down t’ the boat an’ give it to her father?”

  “’Tis a dandy, Roselle,” Mary Jane says cheerfully, as she turns one of the youngone’s coats for the fall.

  “Charlie has his auld one with him, and that’ll do him for the sake of another week. Put it up in the room, Marianne, an’ he’ll be delighted t’ see it when he gets back.”

  “Very good, me dear. Time for a snuff, I ’low,” hints Roselle.

  Mary Jane reaches up and takes a package from a nook in the low, open-beamed ceiling. From a piece of cloth, she takes out a stick of tobacco. With her good knife she cuts off a letter, wraps it in a piece of cloth, and bangs it nine or ten times with the hammer. Roselle gets up from the rocker and sits on a chair next to the table. Mary Jane takes the snuff out of the cloth and, with the back of her hand, pushes it in front of Roselle.

  “Was herself out yet the summer?” asks Roselle, motioning with her head toward Healy’s big house.

  “I don’t believe so,” Mary Jane answers. “I would’ve seen her go in the back door wit’ Annie when she come yesterday.”

  “The poor dear. Sure, the last time she was out, sure, they made fun of ’er that much they said never again would they be takin’ the poor soul to Fox Harbour.”

  “’Magine, now,” Mary Jane says.

  “Who ye talkin’ ’bout?” one of the young ones asks.

  “Mrs. So-and-So,” Mary Jane answers quickly. “Now, don’t be askin’ questions and go outside and play!”

  “Sure, did ye hear the postman fell off his harse ag’in?” Roselle continues. “That fella’s goin’ to be killed yet if he don’t mind himself.”

  The exchanging of news continues until Marianne comes back in the house.

  “The boats are gettin’ ready to go,” she says, “and Mrs. Biddy Mullins is out sittin’ on a chair in front of her house.”

  “Is dat true? Sure, she’s been in the house, the poor t’ing, since poor Peter died. ’Twill do her good. Good for her,” Roselle says with a few quick nods of her head.

  “The men are singin’ from their boats. So are the crowd down on the wharf,” says Marianne. “I’m goin’ back down.”

  “You have them mats beat out yet?” Mary Jane asks.

  “They’re hangin’ o’er the fence,” Marianne says.

  Half the community’s people stand and sit around the shore to see the crews off. Many, especially the old men, bid “good look” and “good fortune” to the crews of the schooners Pauline, Lady Jane, and Annie Healy. Although it will be a while before they’ll be leaving.

  Mary Jane’s view of the wharf from her kitchen window is blocked by Healy’s store. She runs out of the house for a look and a wave, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charlie. Roselle continues knitting the sweater she started after dinner.

  “When Mrs. Mart gets back from Bridge King’s this evenin’, we’re goin’ into Billy’s Brook to weed the potatoes,” says Roselle.

  Roselle and Mrs. Mart Mullins are the best of friends.

  “Come on, Roselle, we goes down to the water to join in the send-off.”

  The swarm of people keeps Mary Jane’s attention while the tune of voices on the wind sings to Roselle. Even the gulls seem excited, circling the mastheads of the schooners. Neither of the two women speaks as they make their way through the crowd. Mary Jane knows she hasn’t a chance of seeing Charlie, as he’s busy aboard the Big Annie.

  Work continues along the way. The young people, who had lined the shoreline all summer looking for a bit of work to earn a few coppers, are now flat out doing what they’re told. Young girls in homemade cotton dresses, and underwear made from flour sacks spread fish and curse at snickering boys peeking up through the flakes.

  “Pillsbury’s Best, me arse,” the boys shout, reading the print on the girls’ homemade drawers.

  The strong smell of oil paint fills the air. Freshly painted dories, skiffs, and schooners set the harbour agleam. Crisp white sheets on taut lines dance to the rhythms of summer’s wind while tough, glowing women, mostly pregnant, banish hungry cats and kittens from the fish and the flakes with boughs and brooms.

  Lead sinkers break the water’s surface while young lads catch tough conners, banging their slimy heads off rocks, allowing little delay to their endings. A barrel-chested gull rips the head off a struggling tomcod and balks at a couple of crows hopping around in a circle. It’s like some lost tribal dance, natives offering respect to the gods for the unexpected feast they’re sure they’ll get. But the gull swallows the fish in one gulp when the brazen crows get too close for its liking.

  “Hello, Bern’dette,” says Mary Jane.

  Bernadette Foley is on her way to Healy’s to see if that new bobbin is in for her mother’s sewing machine.

  Liz Kelly and Billy Sampson fall up the road, ahead of Bernadette, laughing their heads off about the “tarmentin’” Liz and Marg gave Mr. Watt earlier.

  “That’s a sin fer ye,” Bernadette says.

  “Go on, girl! He loves it,” Liz proclaims. “Wanna come into The Falls by ’n by? We’re goin’ spyin’ on Michael Mullins an’ his missus.”

  Liz and Billy can’t stop laughing.

  Even if she were allowed, Bernadette wouldn’t go. She’s expecting a letter from her sister, Laura, who left in the spring to join their sister, Nell, to work in service in Grand Falls. Bernadette can’t understand why Laura didn’t just stay here and work at Healy’s store, or as one of their servant girls like everyone else.

  “Sure, that’s where me mother worked, at H’aly’s, when she met Daddy, and she come all the way from Conception Harbour,” Liz says proudly.

  Bernadette dreads every moment of life without Laura around. At least her daddy’s not going fishing anymore. She’s glad of that. Now tha
t she’s able to go up the hill and cut the grass on Gus’s grave by herself, it will give her daddy more time to do other things. Although his thoughts hardly ever make it to his lips, a slight nod of his head and a little wink from his intense eyes sometimes tell a tale of gratefulness. On Sundays they visit Gus’s grave, mindlessly pulling weeds eager to take over the small plot. It gives her parents a chance to reflect, to say things like “I s’pose God had a plan for our b’y,” and “He’s probably better off, the poor soul.”

  God is second to no one in Fox Harbour, no matter how many losses He sends their way. Bernadette said she’ll never forget Sunday past making their way down from the graveyard, what her mother said, and then what her father said.

  “Jack, b’y, I thinks ’tis time ya had yer habit made.”

  “Lize, girl, t’ tell ya the truth, I’d just as soon be buried in me rubber clothes.”

  “Jack, b’y! Ya knows ya can’t be buried in yer rubber clothes. P’raps Mart Mullins will lend ya her habit.”

  When Jack said nothing, Lize just sighed and said something to Bernadette about how queer her father is.

  Bernadette and Laura are the best of friends—inseparable until Laura went away. Sharing the same birthday, Bernadette will soon be eleven and Laura eighteen. And this is the first year in Bernadette’s life the two will be apart on their special day. Laura’s absence adds awful hours to Bernadette’s never-ending daily chores, with just herself and her mother left at home. The only excitement is when the barrel comes once or twice a year from her sisters, Margaret, Helen, and Jane, in the States. It never fails to include nice hand-me-down dresses and, every few years, shoes which Daddy puts on the last and makes good as new.

  The day Laura left Villa Marie for Grand Falls Station, a bit of good left Lize. It’s been all right having Jack around for the past little while, between trips, good and bad, to Golden Bay, although his coming and going in and out of the house gets on her nerves.