Being Mary Ro

by Ida Linehan Young

  Mary smiled, thinking of happier times when Brian was married and had the wedding celebration in this house. There were several sittings for the two families, with a meal on the big maple table using Mom’s fancy blue dishes. It was a roast beef dinner for her brother and his intended, Carla Dean. Her brown-haired, brown-eyed sister-in-law had come to work at the cannery with her family, fell in love, and never left.

  The stove and table had been toted out to the stable after the meal to make room for the continuing merriment as the whole community came for the party. Mary, at thirteen, had been old enough to stay up while the neighbours danced the lancers and square sets in the kitchen until the sun rose over Tickle Island. Mr. Jim Dalton and Mr. Frank Power broke out the accordions. They played and sang all night. With little other entertainment in the small community, the wedding was the talk of the place for many months.

  The lamp burning low—a beacon of sorts for her return—reflected gambolling flames in the shiny glass knobs on the doors as she turned up the wick. The sparkling lights reminded her of her foolish thoughts moments earlier regarding a wish.

  Grabbing a book from the shelf at the end of the sideboard, Mary put the last junk of wood into the stove for the night. The entertaining books in her collection held tales of faraway lands to explore—India and Paris and other exotic places—that freed Mary from the mundane confines of John’s Pond life.

  Her sisters, knowing how much she loved to read, sent books from Boston to share a piece of the world. Though they had constantly asked her to visit the first few years they were away, they stopped after repeated refusals. So every four months, like clockwork, Mary would receive a package—sometimes with a dress, stockings, a pair of shoes, some patterned cotton to make something of her own, but always with a book and some United States money and a few Newfoundland coins.

  Her sister Bridie had married a lawyer from St. John’s and moved to Boston. Likewise, Theresa and Nellie were doing well, having married with families: children and husbands Mary had never seen. She didn’t want their charity but was at peace that it would happen no matter what, accepting the gifts as just that—gifts, not handouts. She gave the fabric away to neighbours with big families who could use it more. She supplemented her cannery income with the Newfoundland money, but the United States currency she kept in a tin can under her bed. She didn’t expect to use it but guessed her sisters kept sending it in case she changed her mind about visiting them. She supposed she had over $50 from the past ten years.

  The books she received were impractical but, by far, the best part of the packages. Her favourites were The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas; the latter she could almost recite word for word. She also liked the wilderness adventures in The Life of Daniel Boone by Cecil B. Hartley.

  Her father was against all the reading at first because he said it would fill her head with dreams too big for her. He wanted her to stay in John’s Pond and for her head to stay there as well. He brought her more sensible books on the occasions when he went away with his fish to the market. Her father’s choices included books on cures and remedies that both she and her mother could use. Mary really liked these. He also brought her books on stars and navigation and other “real” topics, which she also admittedly enjoyed.

  When she was younger, Mary sometimes sneaked into the meadow to read her sisters’ books so as not to upset Da. Now with her parents gone, she liked the books that brought her away from this place and the loneliness. She thought of Da tut-tutting her choice as she stretched out on the daybed, dropped her geographical shackles, and let herself go with Sinbad on the Seven Seas from The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night by John Payne.

  She jumped off the daybed and almost put it back on the shelf when she realized what she’d chosen. It was once a happy book for her. She hadn’t read it since the betrayal. Mary kept it on the shelf as a reminder of her youthful foolishness. The brutal wound opened, and she almost fell to her knees at the blow. How had she done that? All the star nonsense, she supposed.

  Mary pushed the book back on the shelf with some force. She would burn that one in the morning. It was time, so her mind said. She knew her heart would win when daylight broke. She grabbed Black Beauty by Anna Sewell and returned to the daybed.

  Sometime later, she shivered at the slight chill and knew it was time to go to bed. Upstairs was cool, but she was still glad she had moved back to her room. It had made the coming of spring real, shaking off the cobwebs of the long and lonesome winter.

  She grabbed some flat stones from the warmer, using the tattered apron from behind the stove to protect her hands. She darted up the stairs and placed the stones strategically under the blankets of the double bed. The lamp wasn’t necessary because she knew by heart everything about this very room that she had shared with Bridie from childhood. Pausing just for a moment, reliving a memory of her older sister, Mary retraced her steps before the night chill reached her bones.

  As was her ritual, she scraped the poker across the ashes in the firebox, replaced the block in the cement chimney to keep out the draft, wiggled out of her shoes, pushing them under the stove, and cupped the glass base of the lamp. She turned from the foot of the stairs and made the sign of the Cross toward the stove—repeating a habit of her mother’s with a hurried “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

  Mary’s room was at the head of the stairwell. As the lamplight shone on its sparse contents, she moved to place the lamp on the stool in the corner near the bed. With the light from her own room to guide her, Mary used the chamber pot in the room across the hall. She quickly splashed water from the basin in the washstand on her hands and scrunched the towel between her fingers. In the morning she would have to bring up the new soap and a fresh towel.

  Now, feeling the chill, Mary ran to sit on the edge of the bed. She threw her dress and stockings on the chair in the corner and shoved her arms out into a flannel nightgown that Bridie had sent her the year before. As she sank beneath the homemade patchwork quilts, she could feel the warmth of the stones through the covers. She settled in for the night, using her feet to push the stones back to the unused part of the bed.

  As soon as she buried herself beneath the covers, she realized she hadn’t doused the lamp. She cupped her hand over the back of the glass chimney and blew, extinguishing the flame. Mary snuggled under the covers once again as the darkness enveloped the room. She slept peacefully.

  3

  She must be dreaming—it couldn’t be Sunday. The church bell was clanging incessantly and tolled her from sleep. She could hear faint shouts and unusual noises penetrating the night. Mary stubbed her toes on the wooden bedpost when she sprung from the bed and felt her way toward the window. When she pulled back the light cotton curtains, she could tell that something had happened.

  It was nearing dawn, and movement in the semi-darkness near the church caught her attention—it looked as if people were scurrying about. She could make out lanterns lit on the posts at the base of the dock. That was odd: they should be dark now. Boats appeared to be returning from their fishing trip, although they should be well out on the bay, or at least going in the other direction. One was tied up, and several others were coming into view in the low morning mist, heading to port. How long had she slept? The boats should have been gone for five or six days, yet here they were. The seas looked calm; it couldn’t be the weather.

  Still groggy and confused, she felt her way around the bed and struck a match on the stool to light the lamp. Still not sure that it wasn’t a dream, she donned the same dress and woollen stockings she had shed before turning in for the night. In short order, she was down the stairs, in her coat and shoes, and out the door.

  The early morning air was heavy with dew that clung to her clothes as soon as she stepped out of the house. She raced toward the church to see who was ringing the bell and why. She caught up with a couple of women ahead of her and entered the
sanctuary seconds behind them. As the crowd gathered, fishermen from the first boat moored at the dock came in. Everyone was talking at the same time, and Mary, as well as the townsfolk, couldn’t figure out what the commotion was all about.

  Finally, Skipper Edward Linehan shouted for everyone to be quiet and pay attention.

  “Please. Please, everyone, calm down.” The sense of urgency in his voice brought the room to a low murmur, except for the noise of the few stragglers coming in from down the shore and the other side of the pond.

  The skipper told them that the boats were heading out the bay for the fishing grounds when they had caught sight of the SS Abyssinia on fire off Colinet Island. All boats in the vicinity had rushed to the steamer and immediately begun rescuing the almost 600 passengers. People were in the water, in lifeboats, and more still on the ship. It was hard to see in the darkness, but they could make out the fire from a few miles away and knew it was bad. Boats from all over the bay had responded and were bringing survivors back to their respective home ports. Those needing medical attention would be brought to John’s Pond. The first boat had at least ten injured, and the other boats would have just as many, or more.

  He told them everyone’s help was needed to tend to the wounded, or to give the passengers a place to stay until the Newfoundland Constabulary and Job and Steele insurance agents came to settle the matter.

  Mary’s heart raced, and her body tensed at the thought of another boat like the one that had brought so much misery the year before. Not again, she thought. I can’t do this again.

  The skipper asked if anyone would be willing to make the trip to Colinet for the doctor.

  Mary quickly shouted, “I’ll go!”

  “Mary Ro, are you sure you shouldn’t stay here? Will you find your way in the dark?”

  “Of course I will. I’ve made the trip more than once with Da. And yes, I should go.”

  Mary knew they could use her nursing skills. It would be right to stay, but she couldn’t. A boat and sick people was the reason she had given up doing nursing in the community. She couldn’t help many of those men, and her family paid the ultimate price. She wouldn’t risk that same failure. She couldn’t risk it. She just couldn’t.

  “I’ll go with her!” yelled Meg Dalton. “We can’t have her in those woods by herself.”

  The skipper paused, about to argue, but with the able-bodied men on the schooners and mostly women, children, and older men left in John’s Pond, there wasn’t much choice. “Go quickly,” he urged. “Some of the passengers are in a bad way.”

  As they left the church, Skipper Ed continued to shout orders to the others to get the injured into the building. Meg began to babble and stammer as she rushed behind Mary on the path toward the treeline along the shore.

  A horse would have been nice. But all the horses in John’s Pond were on North Harbour Point, where they spent the summers grazing. They would be brought back before the first snowfall, spending the winter stabled by their owners to be used for hauling wood or emergency winter travel. For now, Mary and Meg had to walk.

  “Meg, I know you mean well, but you’re going to have to be strong now. I’d like the company, but I don’t want to have to look after you, too.”

  Meg nodded, keeping silent as they set out on their journey. She wouldn’t let Mary Ro down. Colinet was six miles north along the shore through the woods. Once they made it to Rocky River, they would need to wake the ferryman and cross the river. The doctor, and possibly help from others in the community, would be a mile or more farther on.

  The ferry boat on the river operated only in the summer. As soon as the river froze over, the boat was tied up, with the ice serving as a bridge. Mary had been on the ice a few times but had not set foot on the ferry.

  Colinet was mostly a logging community, so the men wouldn’t be at sea, but Mary had no way of knowing what was involved in the logging industry—would the people be at home? Either way, the doctor was supposed to be there, so all she could do was try.

  The path was well-worn. It was used to bring mail and supplies between the communities, either by foot or horse and sled in the winter. Many times her parents and other couples in the town had walked this trail on their way to a wedding or a dance in Colinet. It was well marked with little chance of going astray unless a person had not gone that way before.

  Still dark, the trail could be dangerous with loose stones, so Mary was careful as she led Meg along the shoreline toward Rocky River. A light mist overnight made the ground slippery underfoot. Mary didn’t want to fall and possibly twist or break something that would keep her from her task. If she was delayed she wouldn’t be able to get help for those poor people, and she had little faith that Meg would be of much assistance on her own.

  After a few miles, she heard Meg panting heavily behind her. Mary stopped to see how the girl was doing. She silently cursed the fact that she had taken her along. “Thirsty,” Meg said breathlessly.

  “There’s a stream just ahead where you can get some water,” Mary said. “You have to hang on until then. We can take a five-minute breather, but then we have to rush.”

  Meg nodded. Moments later, Mary could hear the stream bubbling a few feet ahead. Mary and Meg knelt beside the little brook, cupping their hands to catch some water. It was getting brighter and easier to see, although daylight hadn’t quite reached the path through the trees.

  “Hurry now, Meg. We have to go,” Mary said, as she stood and quickly brushed her skirts. Wet patches formed where her knees were on the ground, and she felt the dampness on her stockings.

  Mary grabbed Meg’s hand and helped her cross the little stream as they hurried northward along the path. After another couple of miles, daylight finally penetrated the trees, leaving dark-shadowed places on the right side of the trail. They heard the roar of Rocky River long before they saw it. The pounding noise was frightening to Meg. Mary hadn’t heard the thunderous roar before either. To help ease Meg’s fear, she calmly explained how massive the river was when iced up.

  Mary hoped Mr. Corrigan, the ferryman, was on the John’s Pond side of Rocky River. According to what Da had told her, Mr. Corrigan spent some nights in a little shack on the riverbank; however, he could also be home in Colinet—something Mary didn’t want to consider.

  Several winters earlier, when Da and Mary had been through, the heavy wooden barge had been pulled up on the north side, closest to Colinet. This morning it was in the water. Mary knew they were in luck when she caught sight of smoke coming from the chimney of the little shack. She concentrated on her footing as she descended the steep and rocky path. She sent silent thanks toward the sky.

  “Help! Help!” she shouted over the rumble of the fast-moving water as they came within earshot of the shack. Mr. Corrigan came out to see what the commotion was all about. He fixed his suspenders and pulled on his jacket as he moved toward her. Mary quickly informed him of the fire on the SS Abyssinia and the desperate need for the doctor in John’s Pond.

  Mr. Corrigan scrambled toward the barge, quickly untied the ropes, and ushered them aboard. The bulky wooden craft edged across the turbulent white foam on a set of ropes secured on either side of the river. As ferryman, he used muscle power, straining to work the ropes anchored by pulleys, and within a short time they were free from the churning water and tied to the small wooden dock on the Colinet bank.

  Dr. Liam Parker would be at the Didhams’ boarding house, according to Mr. Corrigan, and Mary knew exactly where that was. Although it was more than a mile from where they landed, thankfully the boarding house was on the south side of the Colinet River, which split that community in half and could have served as another complication for the two women. Mary and Meg thanked Mr. Corrigan and hustled up the embankment and along the path toward Colinet and the Didhams.

  They took a moment to catch their breath after the climb up the rocks. Then Mary and Meg began a slow r
un along the final mile until they could see the first houses of the community. Knowing the Didhams owned the big brown house with the yellow trim near the river, Mary sprinted to the door with Meg on her heels. They knocked and shouted for help.

  Mrs. Didham opened the door quickly, and between breaths, Mary and Meg were able to tell the woman what had happened—and that the doctor was badly needed in John’s Pond. Mr. Didham came into view behind his wife and, in short order, had everyone scrambling. One of the boarders was sent to alert the neighbouring homes, and Mr. Didham quickly called the doctor before fetching the horses from the barn.

  Mary watched with some yearning as, seconds later, Dr. Parker and Mr. Didham disappeared along the path toward Rocky River on two big mares. The doctor, in his mid-thirties, light-haired and green-eyed, prematurely balding, was neither handsome nor ugly. Yet this man’s skill was of such great importance to the survival of so many.

  Mrs. Didham invited the girls in by the stove to get warm. There was no refusing—not that they would have anyway. They wiped their shoes on the multicoloured hooked mat and followed her through the long, narrow porch into the kitchen. With practised ease, she swiftly took the huge, red-flowered teapot from the back of the stove, a matching pair of cups and saucers from the cupboard, and set the table to get them a mug-up. They gratefully accepted her offer of tea and toast and took a seat.

  Both girls were tired, especially Meg. Mary suddenly realized she was impressed with the girl. Meg’s dark brown hair, which was always neatly pinned to her head, was now in disarray. Usually impeccably dressed, her clothes were dishevelled and dirty. Mary smiled at the sight. She had underestimated the girl. Meg had spirit. She had kept going, even though the trip had been tough on her—admirable qualities, Mary had to admit.