Thursday's Storm

by Darrell Duke

  “Go on down, b’y, an’ see what the men are at,” she says, up to her elbows in the bread pan, as he traipses back and forth over her clean floor in his dirty boots.

  Bernadette can still hear Liz and Billy shouting and carrying on, although they’re nearly out of sight. She scuffs over the gravelly lane leading to their back door, takes the dry mats from the wood-horse, and goes in the house.

  Chapter ten

  Uncle Watt

  Liz Bruce snaps out of her daydream. Young Johnny is sound asleep at the table, chin on his chest. His berries are cleaned to near-perfection. Liz figures fifteen or twenty minutes must have passed since she got lost in that awful past of hers. She breathes a sigh of relief when hearty laughter from the yard rings through the kitchen walls.

  Pad and Jack Foley are in the stitches, laughing at Uncle Watt telling stories. When they enter the kitchen, the room immediately seems smaller because of their large frames.

  “The H’alys won’t be drivin’ ye back t’ sea for more fish if I goes wit’ ye,” old Watt says, plopping down on the daybed. “Never ye mind Golden Bay,” he continues. “I knows a spot up be The Rams where the fish are so plentiful they’ll jump right into yer boat if ye talks nice ’nough to ’em.”

  “Now, Uncle Watt! Ye knows I wouldn’t make do here without ya while the b’ys are away,” Liz says cheerfully.

  “I s’pose yer right, girl. I s’pose yer right,” old Watt says, tossing his cap on the back of the chair next to the stove and wiping the sweat from his head with the back of his hand.

  Watt’s real name is Walter Sinnott. He comes from The Rams, a small island north of Fox Harbour, about a four-hour row by dory for Watt. After his wife, Mary, died, he moved to Fox Harbour with Pad, his nephew. Watt is tall and lean, not unlike Pad, but with silver-grey windswept hair and a small forehead mapped with strong lines of hard work and adversity. Below two shadowy slits for eyes is a long, wide-bridged nose he says is capable of detecting fish a hundred fathoms below a boat and of smelling the direction of the wind. His thin lips seem to hold a permanent smile and his mouth appears to be always open, showing a sharp tongue once hidden by good teeth.

  “Jaysus! Yer not eatin’ again,” Pad says to his uncle.

  “I don’t know why the good Lard ever give me teet’ when I can chew anyt’ing wit’ me gums,” Watt says behind a big piece of salt beef, ignoring Pad altogether.

  “Luh! He can’t even hear me o’er the racket he’s makin’,” Pad says, trying to get Watt going again.

  “I hears ya, ya foolish fooker!” Watt says, not bothering to uncross his eyes fixed on the fatty meat dripping grease over his chin.

  He gives the sleeves of his black Sunday coat a flick with his long fingers, but there’s little room for the garment to move on his big arms and the sleeves continue to soak up the grease. His once-white dress shirt is a bit small on him, buttoned tightly around his wrinkly neck. Worn rubber boots hide the shortness of his pant legs.

  “Not much outta you, Fowlou!” Watts spits out to Jack from behind the vanishing fat and stringy beef.

  “No, b’y,” Jack says with a close-mouthed grin and a toss of his head.

  “Sure, ’tis not like you’d hear ’im, anyway, ya contrary ole fooker,” Pad says.

  “That’s ’nough now, Pad,” Liz interrupts. “Let Uncle Watt eat in peace.”

  “Pay no mind t’ him, Liz, me dear, he don’t know any better. His mudder dropped him on his head when he was small, ya know. I was there,” Watt says matter-of-factly. “He never had the sense of a suckin’ duck.”

  The other three laugh at Watt’s drollness while enjoying their tea and raisin buns. Watt waves his big hands, shining with grease, to draw attention to another of his stories. And for the next twenty minutes he seems unaware he’s sitting in comfort in Fox Harbour, as his actions and many facial expressions uncover a few details of life on The Rams.

  “Yes, b’y, the pack ice kept the trader away for the whole winter, that year,” Watt sighs, “an’ we soon had ne’er bit o’ shot left for our guns. No, sir, an’ never a bite t’ eat, eider. The last sacks o’ flour we had between us, about twelve big fam’lies, there were, was ’bout half flour an’ half ker’sene, where they has the two stowed togedder in the holds o’ the schooner, see. We’d take out a bit o’ offal from the liver barr’ls an’ spread it on the rocks, an’ when the gulls were hoverin’ above, we hooked ’em wit’ our jiggers. They waren’t bad wit’ a bit o’ bread, even though the bread tasted the same as lamp oil. Eat anyt’ing when yer starved.”

  Watt gives thanks for the gulls and the bad flour that kept most of his people from perishing.

  “My God, I say there were three or four young ones starved to deat’, p’raps more. Shockin’, ’twas.” Watt’s volume drops way down. “Hear ’em bawlin’ from the hunger in the middle o’ the night, an’ when their bawlin’ stopped, the mothers’d be howlin’ like the Divil. No wan else howled the way the women howled when a youngster died. They never had the strengt’ t’ bawl too loud, I s’pose. The other wans, ’specially the youngsters, barely ’live demselves.

  “You knows what ’twas like some winters out there,” Watt says, looking at Pad. “You were reared there, same as meself.”

  “That’s true, Uncle Watt.”

  “Another couple or three women perished givin’ birth, an’ no wan had the strength to bury ’em right, so we’d put ’em down just ’nough so the dogs couldn’t dig ’em up an’ when the trader would get in ag’in with ’nough food t’ get our strengt’ back, we’d take ’em up, the poor souls, an’ dig ’em a proper grave.”

  “Thank the Lord we never had too much of that to deal with,” Jack says, “with a doctor in Little Placentia, an’ Ville Marie Station, the train.”

  “And the dogs that eat each udder, sweet Jaysus, I never see the like,” Watt adds.

  “Now, Uncle Watt, they were awful times, ’deed they were,” Liz says, “but for the love of God, p’raps you’ve a happier tale to tell the b’ys before they heads back to sea?”

  From his eighty years, Watt quickly hauls out a story which they’re sure they’ve all heard before, but their faces show no disappointment when it begins with a new twist.

  “Meself an’ me fadder were on Burke Island, bright an’ airly one marnin’ in December, cuttin’ next year’s wood, see,” he begins. “Jaysus, we must’ve been choppin’ away at one side o’ this one tree for half the day when Fadder said, ‘Walter, I ’lows ’tis time we takes a spell.’ So Fadder lay down be the tree an’ closed his eyes, an’ I walks around our tree to make me water, an’ what do I find, but two other fellas choppin’ away at the other side. O’ the same tree, mind ye. They were there all mornin’, too, they said, an’ we never heard a peep from them or their axes.”

  “’Tis a job to find a tree like that anymore, Mr. Watt,” Jack says.

  “I guarantee ya!” Watt says dryly, almost believing his own foolishness.

  “I s’pose ya lugged that tree out on yer shoulders, did ya, Uncle Watt?” Pad mocks.

  “Pad!” Liz warns again.

  “Yes, b’y, we made the strangers limb it an’ then paid ’em off with a plug o’ ’baccy an’ lugged the tree to the water, carved a big hole to sit in, then paddled our way back t’ De Rams, towed our own boat behind,” Watt carries on, never missing a beat. “An’ after we made a skiff out o’ it, we had ’nough leftovers t’ make two stores an’ a wharf.”

  “A wharf?” Jack plays along.

  “Only a small wharf, now, mind ye,” Watt says.

  “Is that so,” Pad says, waving his arms and hands like Watt.

  “Not hard t’ know he was dropped on his head, is it, Fowlou?” Watt says, lifting the front damper and spitting tobacco juice in the stove.

  Jack replies with a toss of his head and his usual sli
ght grin.

  “Ah, Uncle Watt, ya knows we’ll miss ya,” Pad says, reaching over and squeezing Watt’s shoulder.

  Pad proudly boasts how the Healys, the crew, and the shore boys loved Watt’s company all last winter when they stripped the Annie Healy of shrunken caulking and filled her seams with new oakum.

  “Yes, b’y, Mr. Watt, yer after helpin’ mend an’ make many a net an’ boat in Fox Harbour with your fine stories an’ chunes, too,” Jack says softly.

  Watt responds with a series of deep snores.

  “Uncle Watt! Uncle Watt!” Pad shouts.

  “Jaysus, b’y, wha’s the matter wit’ ya?” Watt snaps, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “I thought ya were dead, b’y,” Pad says. “Go on back to sleep.”

  “With dat yap o’ yours goin’ steady, I’d have a job t’ die ’round here,” Watt mumbles. “In a bitta peace, anyhow.”

  “Jaysus, Pad, will ye leave ’im ’lone,” Liz says. “He had Mick Mullins’s roof tarred by eight o’clock this marnin’, ya know.”

  “I know, girl, I know. I’m only coddin’ ’im. Ya can’t open yer gob ’round here.” Pad lets on he’s mad, crossing his legs and turning toward the window with his cigarette.

  With Pad silenced and Watt asleep, all three work on their second helpings of tea and watch people coming and going from Healy’s wharf.

  Pad knows Watt will be heaving the tunes out of him down by the wharf soon enough, and this bit of rest for the old man will go a long way. A favourite amongst the youngsters of the harbour, Watt is under constant torment and, although he never lets on, he loves the attention. He’s fond of all young ones like the ones he and Mary never had. Having lived through Newfoundland’s toughest times, he can’t get over how easy everyone has it these days. Much of his time is spent walking around the town, talking with people, holding ladders, and tying mops, brushes, and pails onto pulling ropes for men and boys tarring rooftops on nice mornings between trips to Golden Bay. Under the flickering light of oil lamps at night in stores and stageheads, he sharpens axes, knives, and saw teeth. On mornings with men away and company scarce, he cleans longers of their bark for flakes and fencing for chicken coops, pigpens, and gardens.

  Watt is strong and well able to eat twenty meals a day if he has the mind to. Wherever he has dinner is where he takes his long nap each afternoon. Two slices of fresh bread dipped in stewed cods heads chased with a couple of mugs of scalding hot tea and he’s as good as dead when sleep strikes. Tables shake, rattle, and squeak as women knead dough for bread and buns. Lifters lift dampers, scraping stovetops while long iron pokers stuff junks of wood into dwindling fires. Lids clank and puff out steam as boilers of dancing hot water tremble in waiting for pudding bags, soiled diapers, or potatoes dug fresh from capelin and kelp-laced gardens. Heavy oven doors screech when opened and bang when slammed shut, rattling flues and dishes as Watt heaves off on daybeds, or “stretchers” as they’re known in some Fox Harbour homes. Not even the brazen crows cawing noisily on the ground outside kitchen windows can wake him. “Some day on De Rams,” he says when the sun is shining, no matter where he is.

  Johnny wakes up, finishes his dinner, and is playing with one of the Mullinses’ young ones next door by the time Uncle Watt is upright again and finishing his next mug of tea.

  “’Tis some nice to have me men back in the house,” Liz says, glad her mind is reeled back from old thoughts of which she’s sick and tired.

  The day turned to rain again, just as quick as it changed from rain to shine this morning. Liz worries about Ellen catching her death, with the mid-August wind not that warm.

  “She’s not long left with Maurice Whiffen,” Liz answers Pad.

  Ellen and Maurice are the best of friends, even sharing the one birthday, and, according to Pad, are joined at the hip.

  Liz sees them going up the other side of the harbour with pails in their hands while they are supposed to be heading in the opposite direction, to Billy’s Brook, for water. Maurice always carries a strong stick his father cut for him to carry two pails of water at a time. He always carries Ellen’s water home for her. They get awfully mad when Pad jokes, “Ye’ll be married yet.”

  “God knows, now, with the two of them, where they’re to,” Liz says.

  “There’s plenty in the barrel in the porch to do till tonight, anyway,” Liz assures Pad, as he and Jack head out to the shed.

  Liz sends Johnny up to Healy’s shop for two sticks of Jumbo tobacco for his father.

  “Have a look an’ make sure that shawl is still hangin’ on the wall by the window,” Liz says to Johnny as he’s running out the door.

  With Pad and the young ones out of the house, Liz gets a taste of that bitter loneliness she so dreads. The thought of Pad leaving again is hard, but at least they’ll be able to get a handle on most of their debt to Healy’s when he returns. The thought of the new shawl keeps her happy, although Pad said no way can they afford it and her old one will have to do. Watt will help out lots and keep her entertained. It could always be worse.

  Jack walks up the road with Pad and gives him a hand putting Jim Spurvey’s belongings back in his skiff.

  Jack and Lize have lost two of their eight children: first Lizzie, then Gus.

  “I was some proud of him, our only b’y,” Jack says, avoiding Pad’s eyes, pretending to scan the harbour. “He was a real joy to have ’round, on the water with meself soon as he was able t’ stand in a boat. He was good, ya know.”

  All through the years, when one daughter after another was born to Jack and Lize, Gus graciously accepted the role of big brother, the one who knew everything. They all adored his gentleness and, like his father, he was quiet as an old dog. When Lizzie was the baby, she held Gus’s full attention.

  “He treated her like she was the Pope,” Jack says. “She always had to kneel up on a chair an’ watch for him comin’ home.”

  When she was four, Lizzie got tuberculosis, keeping her out of the window and away from just about everyone, except for Gus, who refused to leave her side. One night late in the fall, returning home from the woods, through the storm windows of the kitchen, Jack and Gus heard the bawling. They threw down their bucksaw and axe and stormed into the house. On the kitchen floor lay all the girls, slumped over their mother’s legs, as Lize tried desperately to rock and rub life back into little Lizzie’s body. She was blue and cold in the cradle of her mother’s arms. Through torrents of angry tears and shrieks of horror, each person mumbled the rosary in their turn. Words were hard to find in times like these and everyone turned inward. It wasn’t proper to speak of such things, let alone how you felt about it. November soon turned into Christmas, and with Lizzie in the hard ground, Lize longed for another child, someone to fill the void left by her little girl’s death. The next August, Bernadette was born.

  Although Gus dutifully resumed his role as big brother with the new baby, Bernadette, the sadness he held over poor sweet Lizzie never left him. He wore it openly in his sullen expressions: the downcast eyes that grew smaller with disgust over time, the mouth with one corner risen in perpetual doubt, and the strong jawline that showed his teeth were always clenched behind lips that rarely smiled. And in the few words he spoke. Jack said he couldn’t blame his son for being withdrawn. Lize told Gus don’t be so black, but she was no better herself.

  “Gus had a poor appetite an’ could hardly gain a pound; n’er bit of energy, Pad, b’y, an’ no wan knew what was the matter with ’im for a few years. We just figured it was to do with Lizzie dyin’. God knows none of us were good for much for a long time after that.”

  Pad tut-tuts and shakes his head, summing up his thoughts on the awfulness of Gus’s condition and little Lizzie dying so young.

  “An’ ya never heared the like of the bark he had,” Jack says, making a coughing sound much milder than the one he’s tryi
ng to describe. “Biverin’ with the cauld one minute, he was, an’ his clothes drenched with sweat the next, ’specially in the nighttime. Goddamn TB! ”

  “Why couldn’t He take me instead of Lizzie?” Gus said for a year or more after Lizzie died. “’Tis not like she did anyt’ing to Him!”

  When Mrs. Lize said how the Lord could take any of them any time He pleases and there was nothing anyone could do about it, it only made Gus worse.

  Lize was no stranger to tuberculosis before her little girl died. She lost her own sister, Sarah, to the disease when Sarah was only twenty. But Lize never had the strength to tell this to any of her children, even then, even if it held a chance of showing Gus and the girls she really knew the hurt of losing a sibling.

  Life went on, with special Masses offered up to Lizzie and the other poor souls in purgatory.

  “There’s fish to be got, an’ food to grow, I always told ’em,” Jack says.

  “I’m lucky, I s’pose,” says Pad, “never to have lost someone young the way you’re after losin ’em. An’ two, at that.”

  Pad imagines he might comprehend Jack’s sorrow the way he tries to envision Liz’s grief over the loss of her two brothers, but nothing consoling comes.

  “I don’t know, Jack, b’y,” is all he manages to get out. But that means more to Jack than Pad will ever know, the fact he listened.

  By the time he was twenty-five, the tuberculosis was robbing Gus’s every breath. By the middle of November, his strength hid in places far from his mind’s reach, and his time amounted to screaming, though not very loudly, fighting for life on the daybed, coughing up great globs of blood into his sheets when the galvanized bucket on the floor seemed too far away, and trying to stay warm.

  Jack was back in the woods by himself again, the first time in nearly twenty years, to fend for his crowd. Even though Gus hadn’t been a big help alongside his father with a saw and axe for a few years, Jack was lost without him long before he was even gone: another man, his own flesh and blood, to say a few words to without fear of ridicule or judgment.