by Ruth Glover
“I imagine,” Tierney said, trying to be sensitive and yet friendly, “ye will miss sich good humor, as well as missing your father and mother, Garden, and, soon now, Heavenly, o’ course.”
“And Thelma and Winifred and Maisie an’ . . . about eight more. Yes,” Pearly said, “I s’pose I’ll miss ’em, about like they’ll miss me. Among so many it’s easy to fergit someone.” Pearly sounded a bit forlorn, as though loneliness in the middle of a crowd was a common thing.
“Weel,” Tierney said, not yet correcting her speech to any marked degree, “ye’ll just have to take on Annie and me. We’ll be yer family, if ye want.”
It was the only invitation needed; Pearly Gates attached herself to the two girls, particularly Tierney. In an instant Tierney gained the sister she had never had until now, though Annie had come close.
Pearly Gates, not quite certain of her age (“older than Garden, younger than Jack”), was probably no younger than Tierney, but in size she was indeed a “wee” sister. Even the poor food the ship’s galley provided—and it was better for them than for many of the others, Ishbel saw to that—was received gratefully and almost greedily by Pearly; so poor was her condition from the beginning that she actually began to show signs of improvement. Her color was better than her London pallor, her dull eyes brightened, and most important of all, she seemed to relax and enjoy herself to a degree unequalled by the others, most of whom complained rather bitterly, at times, about numerous miserable aspects of the voyage. Yes, whatever Pearly’s lot had been up to now, the poor fare and harsh conditions of the ship were an improvement.
Now, standing in line, waiting to “ascend,” the three girls huddled in conversation, running their fingers through their damp hair occasionally, impatient to go up on deck.
“Your name, Pearly,” Anne said, returning to the conversation begun earlier and laid aside, “I was wonderin’—why don’t ye change it? This would be the time, when ye’re leavin’ one place an’ goin’ to another.”
“Why not!” Pearly responded quickly. “I’d like that!”
“What name do ye like? Ye could take yer pick, ye know.”
“It’d have to be me last name . . . I don’t mind the Pearly part, and I’m used ter it. Yes, I’ll change me last name.”
“But that’s yer family name,” Tierney reminded. “Ye’d lose that tie wi’ yer family.”
“Don’t matter,” Pearly responded stoutly. “They won’t miss me none, and since none of ’em can write, and me only a little, we won’t be keepin’ in touch.”
“Well then, how about Smith. Isn’t that a good English name?”
“Smiff!” Pearly sniffed. “I’m gonna get me a name that’s all mine . . . there’s too many Smiffs now.”
The order to “ascend” being delayed for some reason or other, Tierney asked, “What name did you have in mind?”
“You’ll laugh . . .” Pearly said, looking around cautiously as though about to reveal some great secret.
“Na, na. Promise!”
“Well then—Pearly Chapel.”
Though the chattering around them didn’t abate, there was a small pocket of silence around Tierney and Anne. You could almost hear them thinking—Chapel?
Pearly drew closer and spoke earnestly. “See, I went to this chapel fer a year or more . . . made a big difference in me life. If I call meself Chapel, I’ll always remember them good times.”
“What chapel was that, Pearly?”
“The Meffodist Chapel. Somebody invited me. . . . I was glad to go, wif noffing much else to do that meant anyfing. That’s when . . .” Pearly’s little face glowed, and she faltered in her account of the chapel and its affairs.
“You dinna need to tell us if ye dinna want,” Tierney said kindly, while Anne put a spontaneous arm around the girl.
“I don’t mind. Fact is, I sorter like ter tell it. That’s where me life changed—at the Meffodist Chapel. Me heart, I mean.”
“I see,” Tierney said, not seeing at all. Anne looked equally baffled.
“Yes, changed. Changed from noffing to somefing. You see, that’s where they told me about how Jesus loves everybody, even me. That’s where I believed it. That’s where I got saved! And that’s me testimony, see?”
“Saved?” Tierney repeated weakly. It was like no term she had heard in Binkiebrae’s small kirk.
“So I love the name Chapel. Or,” Pearly said, her face ashine under her wet hair, “I could call meself Christian. I have a right to that name, I bin told. Pearly Christian. How’s that?”
“It seems to me,” Tierney said cautiously, “that Pearly Christian, though it’s nice, verra nice indeed, might get ye a few raised eyebrows, same as Pearly Gates. Not from me, o’ course,” she hastened to add.
“Or me,” Anne added quickly.
“Well, then,” Pearly concluded and just in time—there seemed to be indications that the line was about to move—“I’ll be Pearly Chapel. It’ll always remind me of the love of those people, and what happened ter me because they cared about me. Chapel—that’s a posh name! I’ll hafta tell Mrs. Mountjoy to change me name on her list.”
And now, at last, Mrs. Mountjoy was ready to maneuver her “girls” up the companionway to the deck above.
“Girls—commence ascending!” she commanded, and Pearly Chapel’s story was discontinued for the time being. But Tierney, for one, found herself unsettled in her mind and wondered about it. What was there about the pinch-faced girl and her cheery “testimony” that was so captivating?
Drying her abundant auburn hair in the warm sun, rocked hypnotically by the surging seas, Tierney thought on her future. Thought more seriously than she had thought before. She and Anne, yes, and Pearly too, were at the mercy of Ishbel Mountjoy and the British Women’s Emigration Society. But surely, with the Canadian government back of the plan, it could be depended on. Mrs. Mountjoy seemed, in all ways, a rock of Gibraltar, a paragon of all virtues a woman would strive to have in her life. Added to the attraction of those virtues was the one thing Tierney desired most of all: freedom to be herself, freedom to make her own way, freedom to succeed or lose by her own merits. It was a heady opportunity for a poor Scotch lassie; it was worth taking a chance on.
Mrs. Mountjoy had continued daily—after devotions were completed—advising, explaining, extolling the wondrous works of the Society.
“You’ve gotten in on a marvelous opportunity,” she had said that morning. “It’s true that single women are more enthusiastic and adjust better than childbearing women. For them, pioneering is hard; they often submit to it at the will of their husband. The ‘reluctant pioneers,’ we call them. You have made your own decision; you go into it with an open mind. And for you all the details have been worked out; for you there will be no heavy burden of anxiety over facing another long day’s journey across the wilderness over mostly trackless ways.
“That is indeed difficult, and women who undertake it are to be admired; they pay a great price to follow their men into uncharted territory. But for women like you, full of zest and enthusiasm and the confidence that the Society brings, it can and will be an adventure. Each of you will have a fabulous story to tell, some day.
“Even now, you can begin to consider your options and choices, deciding what appeals most to you personally. Let me share one opportunity with you.” Here Ishbel adjusted her spectacles and read from the Regina Leader Post: “‘Wanted—Housekeeper for Canadian bachelor, age thirty-nine, on his own homestead, quarter section, near school, five miles from town, offers permanent position if suited. Apply Box 223, Gray Wolf, Sask., state starting wages, particulars, nationality.’
“Now, isn’t that challenging? But if not, there are many more open doors. Requests keep coming in to the Society and, once in Canada, we’ll have access to current openings.”
At the reading of the advertisement there had been considerable tittering from her listeners, some blushing, a few frowns. “Of course,” Mrs. Mountjoy concluded, folding the
paper, “this is just one letter. There are countless homes across the territories that are simply begging . . . waiting for you to come and fill a need. Be assured that you will, each of you, find the place best for you. The Society will see that you are satisfactorily settled, and they will be available for any further needs you might have.”
“And how can that be,” Anne had muttered in Tierney’s ear, “when they are far from us, and farms are miles apart, and roads turn to ice? And that bachelor—I thought we would not be goin’ anyplace whaur there’s no woman.”
“This all started oot as a matter of puttin’ our trust in the Society,” Tierney reminded the cold-footed Anne, who hadn’t regained her composure from the moment she had glimpsed Lucian MacDermott when they were departing Binkiebrae. “The same gumption that got us oot o’ Binkiebrae will get us oot o’ any miserable spot we might get in.”
“I certainly hope so,” Anne replied grimly. “As for me, I’m no’ goin’ tae take any place like the Madam read aboot this mornin’, I can tell you that. No single men. . . .”
“Ye’re reet, Annie. Girls are no’ placed where there’s no woman in the home,” Tierney consoled Anne. “It’s one o’ the rules. What Mrs. Mountjoy read is a marriage proposal, and wasna addressed to the Society.”
Anne’s spirits seemed to lift, as though a great load had been taken from her shoulders.
“O’ course!” she said, much brighter now and clearly relaxing. “We’ll be happy as newborn lambs. Reet?”
“Reet,” Tierney confirmed, with a hasty glance toward their leader to be sure their Scot’s interpretation of “right” had not been overheard.
“I thought,” Pearly, who had been listening, said doubtfully, “lambs was dreffully weak little fings. I thought wolves got after ’em.”
“Not in Binkiebrae Scotland!”
“But in Canada maybe?”
Having quickly gotten their “sea legs,” the Mountjoy girls, as they were called, thoroughly enjoyed the ocean trip, at least as much as was possible considering the distinctly inferior food, lack of water for personal cleanliness and the washing of clothes, crowded conditions, and too many hours in the gloom of the hold where they were billeted. Youth, and a natural ebullience, triggered their sense of adventure, perked their interest in this new experience, and lifted any depression caused by farewells.
It was a time of getting acquainted; after all, they would be together for weeks, probably months, as they crossed an ocean and most of a continent, eating and sleeping in close quarters, sharing their most intimate moments. Hardly a secret would be kept hidden by the time this was all over and everyone scattered to their assigned place. In a few cases friendships were made that would endure across the years and through many exigencies of life. In a few instances there was bitter feuding and antagonism, and enmities were made that also lasted a lifetime.
A sewing project occupied a good bit of time. To Norma, a settled, placid, mature young matron, was given the responsibility of entering Madam’s cabin and using the sewing machine provided for the occasion. With a helper, Norma ran up the side seams of the skirts that had been cut and labeled at some previous headquarters in England. Those who had no such garment in their wardrobe would be hand-sewing the remainder of the seams and the hem. The costs involved would be paid from the emigrant’s salary, added to the amount already due the British Women’s Emigration Society, as arranged, and promised by the girls themselves as they made their “X,” if nothing else, when they signed on.
Though Tierney already had a serge skirt, Anne did not; and neither, of course, did Pearly, who actually had so little that it was an embarrassment to her new friends, though Pearly herself was cheerful about it.
In fact, so cheerful was Pearly that others, of a more pessimistic nature, grumbled and complained about her; some went so far, in their gloom, to ask her to hush. Pearly was never squelched for more than a moment. One of her favorite testimonies was through the singing of a hymn; her choice usually spoke to the problem better than she could in her fractured English. Surprisingly, Pearly had a good voice, sweet and full at the same time.
When she understood that Tierney and Anne and others, with their own wardrobe obviously poor and insufficient, found hers to be pathetic, she burst into song. Naturally it was one she had learned at Chapel. To Pearly it took care of the situation, and there was no need for fretting.
Children of the Heav’nly Father
Safely in His bosom gather;
Nestling bird nor star in heaven
Such a refuge e’er was given.
God His own doth tend and nourish;
In His holy courts they flourish.
From all evil things He spares them;
In His mighty arms He bears them.
“I guess that’s good enough for me,” Pearly said, twinkling a little. Her eyes, wide and purple as pansies in her small, rather peaked face, smiled easily, and she radiated great good humor. “If the heavenly Favver cares for the little sparrer,” she added, “He’ll look after me, won’t He?”
No one resembled a sparrow of the street more than bird-frail Pearly; if the thought gave her comfort, so be it, Tierney and Anne agreed.
“But you haff to wear more than fevvers,” someone pointed out. “Did y’ ever see a sparrer in a serge skirt?”
Pearly cocked her head, more like a sparrow than ever. “The King’s daughter,” she said brightly, “is all glorious within.”
“Hmmmph,” was the frustrated reply, while another doubter said, “Not the queen’s consort; you’re not his daughter. Everyone knows he’s dead and been dead too long to be your father.”
“Oh, not Albert,” Pearly said with a trill of laughter. “I mean the one who ’dopted me. Abba Favver, see?”
“No, I don’t see,” the questioner said crossly. “Can’t you speak plain English, you little cockney? Abba? Abba? Sounds like baby talk to me!”
“Maybe it is,” Pearly responded spunkily. “Cos I fink it means daddy.”
The questioners and doubters, now surrounded by several listening, sometimes amused girls, shook their heads and marched away, muttering.
Pearly was more grieved about the confrontation than she had let on and shared with Tierney her regret over how she had handled the conversation.
“I guess I should keep me mouf shut when I don’t know any more about the Bible than I do,” she said, sighing. “I want to tell uvvers how I feel inside, in my heart, but it’s hard to put it in proper words. You know . . . it’s better felt than tellt.”
Teirney laughed at the odd phrase and put her arm around the drooping shoulders. She didn’t understand, either, but wouldn’t hurt her new friend and sister for anything.
“If ye feel ye jist have to say something,” she advised, “jist toss it out there, like chicken feed, and let the chicks pick up what they can.”
Pearly brightened at what seemed a splendid idea. But she did attempt to use more wisdom than she had formerly. If it dulled her bright testimony a little, still it shone like a light in a dark place to the unbelievers in the ship’s lower deck.
“I am . . . the door, by me . . . if . . . any man . . . enter in . . . he shall be . . . saved.”
Flushed and victorious, Pearly looked up at Tierney from her reading lesson, her finger in place so that she could continue in a moment or so.
Saved. There it was again—that strange word. Tierney looked into the charming little face at her side, aglow with some inner satisfaction. One almost had to believe, listening to her, watching her. But believe what? That Pearly was saved? It didn’t make a lot of sense to Tierney.
“Why did you read that, Pearly?” she asked rather tensely. “I mean, why did you begin yer readin’ there? If you can’t read very weel . . . well . . . how come you chose that verse? Was it jist by chance?” Surely Pearly wouldn’t choose a verse to purposely annoy her! Why did she keep harping on being saved!
“No,” Pearly answered promptly. “It’s one of me favorit
es. I have it marked, see? It’s marked ‘number two,’ see?” And Pearly tipped the Bible so that Tierney could indeed see a childlike figure 2 scrawled there in the margin.
After several days with Pearly in almost constant attendance, Tierney was becoming accustomed to this strange girl’s “testimony” and so continued cautiously.
“I see. So, if there’s a ‘two’ there must be a ‘one.’ Reet?”
“Reet . . . right,” Pearly said, correcting herself and Tierney too. “And it’s prob’ly me favorite of all. Do you want me to read it?”
“Na, na,” Tierney said, so hastily she forgot herself and her pronunciation. “That’s all reet . . . right. Dinna worry aboot it.”
Pearly’s enthusiasm faded for the moment. But it would return; there was no denying the reality of her “Meffodist” experience. She had learned to say “Methodist,” but the correction had not dimmed her testimony.
Pearly had such a bright mind and was such an imitator that her ways were changing more quickly, it seemed, than for any of them. She listened avidly to Ishbel Mountjoy, and her speech was clearing and refining wonderfully as she imitated that paragon of all things English. She watched Tierney and Anne and soon mimicked their small ways of thoughtfulness with each other, their kind concern for those around them, and once in a while a smidgen of their Scottish speech turned up in her speech. She read—to the best of her ability—her small Bible and incorporated its teachings into her life and ways as she could.
Pearly’s attempts at reading were the result of her association with the Methodist Chapel. She had trouble, often, with the words and sometimes with their meaning. Tierney, therefore, sat by her side to help her. But when it came to the scriptural meaning, she found herself truly at sea. With actual waves tossing the ship and Pearly spelling out some worrisome Bible verse, Tierney’s body was no more tossed than her heart.
The Bible seemed to be the only reading material available. With their belongings pared to a minimum, few girls had dared include a favorite book, considering it the extra baggage Mrs. Mountjoy had declared must be eliminated for the sake of space. “Be practical when it comes to packing,” she had said. “Try and imagine a day’s work in a kitchen or a hotel. Try and imagine yourself in a garden, or feeding turkeys and chickens, and bring what’s appropriate.”