But my main reluctance was not owing to concern with how I was regarded in St. John’s. It was the effect on my father of my investigation that concerned me—and, secondarily, the question of what Smallwood would do when he heard of my visit to the family firm.
That both of them would hear that I was going round posing questions about oversized boots, I had no doubt. It was certain to fuel my father’s obsession with the question of my patrimony. He would demand to know what I knew and would probably suspect that I was, and perhaps had been for years, part of some conspiracy, privy to knowledge or nurturing suspicions that I had withheld from him.
And Smallwood. Would he, by my investigation, be prompted to make one of his own? He might get more co-operation from his relatives than I would.
Smallwood might not only find out about my children but about my Provider and his delegate as well.
Still, there was the possibility that, by a mere visit to Smallwood’s Boots and Shoes, I could discover the identity of the latter two myself.
I went to the Duckworth Street factory where I spoke to Moakler, the foreman. I waited for him in his office, which overlooked the factory floor.
Moakler’s “office” looked like the factory in miniature. Piled on his desk, on the window shelves and scattered about the floor were the discrete, constituent parts of boots. I removed some shoe soles from one of the two chairs in the office and sat down just as Moakler made his entrance.
I stood up and he walked around to my side of the desk, I thought to greet me in some fashion, but he merely motioned to the chair I had just risen from. I sat back down and, without a word, he knelt in front of me and took my orthopaedic boot in his hands. He lifted my leg, moved it up and down. He shook his head as he stared at the sole and sides of the boot and especially when he grasped the heel. He stood up as a doctor might who, the consultation I had come for now complete, was about to write me a prescription. He went to his side of the desk and sat down, clearing his blotter of shoe parts and then leaning his forearms on it.
“I have heard of that boot,” he said. “The workmanship is disgraceful.”
“Well, just so that no one will see me leaving here wearing what they might think was a typical pair of Smallwood boots, I’ll use the back door. Wouldn’t want people thinking that, after a month of wearing your boots, they’ll be walking like me.”
“No one would think that was one of ours. It looks like a flat-iron. Weighs about the same. You got it from Hammond’s Boots and Shoes. That’s where the doctors send all their patients.”
“Only the ones with bad feet.”
“Even that boot on your good foot is disgraceful. Unconscientious workmanship. I could make you a better pair. No charge.”
“In which case, I would be a walking advertisement for Smallwood boots. I’d be willing to lurch about St. John’s wearing a sandwich board for the right price.”
“Fred used to tell me his nephew knocked about with you. Charlie’s oldest, Joe. You made up some lie about him and they threw him out of Bishop Feild.”
“Versions of our story are many and various.”
“Nothing but trouble, he said you were. Young Joe must not be the type to carry a grudge.”
“He puts it on wheels and pulls it behind him.”
“My offer still stands. No need to go around in boots like those.”
“Thank you, but no. You see, even if my feet matched, I’d be unsteady on them.”
“Yes. I’ve heard about your flask too.”
“Disgraceful workmanship. Unconscientious flaskmanship. You could make me a new one of those.”
“Shameful habit for a woman like yourself. Not to mention—”
“Consider it unmentioned.”
He shrugged. “What did you want to see me about?”
“I’m writing a newspaper piece—”
“You’re not going to write one of your Forgeries about me.”
“That’s right, I’m not. No, it’s a straightforward piece about boots.”
“You’ve come to the right person. I know more about boots than anyone in Newfoundland.”
“Then my hunch was correct. When writing about boots, better to start with a bootmaker than a clergyman.”
“If you’re planning to make me look like a fool—”
“No, no. I’m sorry. That was the flask talking. Now it’s my turn. I’m especially interested in big, oversized boots.”
“Why?”
“Well, you may have noticed that, as women go, I am somewhat oversized, so it’s only natural—I wear men’s boots, winter boots, I mean. No one makes women’s boots in my size.”
“Oversized boots.”
“Yes. Well, I want to write a piece on just how big the biggest boots are. The kinds, perhaps, that you don’t see on the shelves.”
“Custom-made boots.”
“Precisely. What size was the biggest boot you ever made? Any kind of boot.”
“Fourteen. Fifteen. I’m not sure.”
“I wear size thirteen. Not that I need to tell you that.”
“You should wear size twelve.”
“Are you sure you’ve never made a bigger boot? Size eighteen or nineteen? Even bigger.”
“I’m sure I’d remember making a boot that big. I’ve never seen a boot that big.”
“And if a pair that big had been made here recently?”
“If a pair that big had been made here in the past twenty-five years, I would know about it.”
“Yes, well, you see, I’ve seen such a pair of boots. Last October on the Bonavista. Each boot had the name Smallwood on it.”
“Who was wearing them?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“How did you meet him? What did he look like? Was he a railwayman—?”
“I didn’t actually see him. All I saw were his boots. Outdoors. He must have—left them there.”
“Where?”
“Just by the railway track. I only saw them once. I went back to look at them again but they were gone.”
“I believe you are trying to play some sort of joke on me, Miss Fielding.”
“No, really, I’m not. Might you have ordered in a pair that size from some firm on the mainland?”
“We never deal with mainland firms. They do inferior work.”
“Unconscientiously.”
“No boots that big were ever made by us. And if you write something sarcastic about this so-called interview, you’ll be sorry.”
I promised him I wouldn’t write a word.
Smallwood heard of my visit to the family firm before my father did. He came by my room on Cochrane Street one evening—pushed his way in after I, having heard someone knock, was just turning the doorknob. I hobbled backwards a couple of steps, doorknob still in hand. Without it, I would have fallen.
“Smallwood,” I said. “You’ve caught me without my makeup,” by which I meant without my boots on. Though I was wearing heavy woollen socks, he glanced distastefully at my inturned left foot, then looked away, and without an invitation from me, sat in the chair at my writing desk, his back to me as if he had surprised me in the act of getting dressed. I hurriedly put on my boots, leaving them unlaced, then sat on the bed, the only other place to sit.
“You can look now,” I said, and he turned his chair about to face me. He was about to speak but paused when he saw where I was sitting, staring at the bed as though at something I should have had the decency to conceal or disguise when I had company.
“There’s not much room in this room. It isn’t a very roomy room, is it?” I said.
He looked round, his expression of distaste growing more pronounced. The wallpaper was in tatters, the walls themselves with gaping holes through which you could see the tightly packed newspapers that passed for insulation. My one window was curtainless and, had it not been covered in dust decades deep, would have afforded a fine view of the Southside Hills.
“You’re living in a brothel,” he said.
<
br /> “It’s cheap.”
“That’s what they say about the women who live here.”
“Well, if anyone would know how much they charge, they would.”
“Moakler told me you came by asking about size-twenty boots.”
“By the time the whole city knows, they’ll be size thirty.”
“A pair of Smallwood boots. He said you told him you saw them on the Bonavista. You were asking about the boots I saw, weren’t you.”
“The ones you say you saw.”
“Why?”
“To find out who was wearing them.”
“If you don’t believe I saw them, why are you looking for their owner?”
“I’m worried that if there was someone out there besides us, he might have perished in the storm.”
“They would have found his body by now, don’t you think?”
“You never know. Maybe not, if they weren’t looking for it. Tramps hitch rides on the Bonavista all the time. If he wandered any distance from the tracks, it might be years before his remains were found by accident.”
“A man wearing size-twenty boots wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous. He’d be the talk of the island. Everyone would know if he went missing.”
“I thought I’d check just in case. And remember, you’re the one who says you saw the boots.”
“I thought I did. But I must have been mistaken. Delirious, as you said. You were a lot more sure of yourself then than you are now.”
“I’ve had time to think about it.”
“So have I. What are you up to, Fielding?”
“Don’t worry, Smallwood. Your secret is safe with me. No one will ever know that a woman saved your life.”
“Are you going back to writing Forgeries again?”
“A single woman has to make a living somehow. Or so my neighbours keep telling me.”
“Galoot of a girl,” my father said. “Size-twenty boots. You’re the talk of the town. Why did you go to that bootmaker asking about boots? They say I’ll be known as the chest man whose daughter married a footman. A footman! Lost your mind, they say. Out there in that shack, all alone on the Bonavista. They may be right for all I know. Explain yourself.”
“I was going to write a piece about how hard it is for tall people to get clothes that fit them. Especially footwear. That’s all.”
“Then why did you ask about a pair of boots you say you saw beside the railway tracks?”
“Because they were the biggest boots I’ve ever seen. And I wanted to interview the man who owned them.”
“Asking about Smallwood boots. That cursed, cursed name. That boy who was expelled from school because of you and your confession. Why would you confess to something—It’s not just you they’re teasing me about. It seems that, for some time, they have known about my—misgivings.”
“Your ‘misgivings’ have been common knowledge for years. You know that, Father.”
“‘There’s no cuckold like an old cuckold,’ they’re saying. The cuckold who went cuckoo. And drove his daughter cuckoo too.”
“I’m sure no one said that.”
“I know what they think about me.”
“Ignore them.”
“Why did you ask that man about those boots? Size-twenty boots. The boots of a man big enough to be your father. Is that it? Do you know who he is? Do you know his name? A pair of boots beside the tracks. Out there on the Bonavista. You must know something, suspect something—”
“You’re making yourself upset over nothing. I have no suspicions. I have never doubted for a moment that you are my father.”
“What about your children? Are your children tall?”
“A cruel question. You know that I have never seen my children. Nor have they ever been described to me.”
“When I heard about those boots, I thought, even she has known all along. Her mother must have told her. Or someone else. My rival. Other girls at school. From some boy at Bishop Feild. That Smallwood boy. That business in New York. Such a short little wretch—if only he had been short-lived, the world would be a better place. To think of him getting off scot-free. Never so much as losing one night’s sleep because of what he did. The father of two children he doesn’t even know exist.”
“Never mind about all that,” I said. “It is over and done with. Forgotten.”
“Out there on the Bonavista. What a strange place for him to be.”
“There is no him, Father. No one but you suspects my mother. She may have had reasons of her own for leaving that you and I could never understand.”
“What reasons?”
“I am not saying that I know of any reasons. Only that there might be some. That we will never know.”
“You know something, don’t you?”
“No, Father, I know NOTHING. No matter what I say—you are so determined—to find an excuse. Anything that excuses you—”
“What are you saying, girl?”
“Never mind. Every word I say just makes things worse.”
“People whispering and snickering behind my back. I have heard you referred to as Exhibit A. Living proof, they say, that your mother is guilty.”
Exhibit A. It did not sound like something he was capable of inventing.
“Who refers to me as Exhibit A?”
“My best friend told me about it. My only friend, I sometimes think. A young man named Prowse. The grandson of our great historian.”
“Prowse? Prowse is your best friend?”
“More than that. The son I never had. I have told him so. Perhaps the child I never had.”
“And he told you that I am referred to as Exhibit A?”
“Yes. He said I was better off not knowing why.”
“Prowse is not to be trusted, Father.”
“This is why I have been dreading your return, girl, this, this torment. I hate to say so, but I must be frank.”
“If you must, you must.”
“In the time—what has it been, almost ten years—in the time that you were—away, I have, I have re-entered society. Acquired a circle of friends. At last. True friends.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Men who were so intimidated by you they kept their distance from me.”
“What men? Besides Prowse, I mean.”
“You see. I hear it in your voice. How could such a man as I make friends?”
“I merely wondered—”
“I fear that you will jeopardize these friendships. For so long, until you went away, I had no one but my patients. Spoke to almost no one else. Nothing but my work. But things have changed. I could not bear to live like that again. You must promise me you will not interfere.”
“You sound as if you wish I had not—returned.” I almost said “survived.”
“It is just as they warned me it would be. You have not changed.”
“Who are they?”
He put his hands over his ears and shook his head as if to block out not my voice but some inner one.
“Please, please, girl, you must not start. My torments are barely endurable. Without my friends—”
“I have no intention of depriving you of friends—”
“That’s enough. No more. No more.” He sat down, red-faced, sweating as if recovering from some great exertion.
“Are you ill, Father?”
“Lately—I don’t know. Nothing seems—fixed. It seems that things are always moving. At times, at night, there is so much noise. Musical instruments. Of some kind. And people shouting. In the house. I hear them as I lie in bed. But when I get up—”
“You are ill—”
“‘You mustn’t fret so much,’ he said. He’s right, you know. I do fret. But he says there is an answer and that we will find it. It’s as simple as that, he says. I cannot express my gratitude.”
“Who do you mean?” I said. “A doctor?”
“No, no. Young Mr. Prowse. He has welcomed me. His friends are my friends. I cannot tell you how much I look forwar
d to the meetings.”
“Prowse takes you to meetings.”
“Do not say his name like that. Because of him, I am a member of the Old Comrades Club. You have badly misjudged the man. And others like him. For years. Warned me away from them, for no reason. They are men of high standing. Influential, well-connected, powerful men. You assume that all such men are corrupt. Suspect them of having hidden, sinister motives. But they sincerely wish the best for me. They wish to put my mind at rest. And they have helped me to see you for what you are.”
“Which is?”
“They do not speak ill of you. If anything, they scold me for doing so. They have helped me see that, given everything that has happened to you, you cannot help yourself. Your mother. Your school days. Your —”
“Have you told Prowse about my children?”
He shook his head.
“ARE YOU CERTAIN, FATHER?” I shouted.
He nodded. “I never speak of it. I try not to think of it. That awful business in New York.”
“And you are never to speak of it. Do you understand, Father?”
“I do not wish you to bring more shame upon me than you have already. The two of you. If word got out that you had children—that like you they have no idea who their father is—what a laughingstock I would become.”
“You are right. They also have no idea who their mother is,” I said. “And I want it to remain that way.”
“As to you. It seems that—that others have shared my suspicions that, in order to spare my feelings, they withheld from me.”
“Yes. I have often witnessed the sparing of your feelings.”
“Prowse has been making investigations. He says he will submit a report to me when his investigations are complete.”
“Father—”
“Of course, I can’t have him out of pocket on my account—”
“You haven’t given him any money?”
“Just enough to cover his expenses. I can’t have him out of pocket, not after all his financial reversals. For which he was not to blame.”
“How much have you given him?”
“I don’t know—” He waved his hands as if the figure was irrelevant or trivial.
“Has he given you receipts?”
“No, no. I do not want receipts. I do not want him to account for how he spends the money. This is what I mean. When you are around, there is so much distrust—”
The Custodian of Paradise Page 41
