All Good Intentions

by Trudi Johnson

  But since then, he had gotten to know her, at least as far as she would let him know her. Despite her reluctance to express her feelings, her facial expressions communicated it all. She would lower her head in disappointment, give a twisted grin when she brought out her best sarcasm, seemingly peer deep into your soul when she questioned your motives, and toss her head with a satisfactory smile when she knew she had the last word.

  Weeks ago, he wanted to be angry with Jeanne Sinclair, for being who she was, Charles Sinclair’s daughter who inherited the right to say what she wanted to whomever she liked.

  But he could not. Not anymore.

  He chose his words carefully as he began his explanation. “My father worked hard all of his life. He wasn’t educated or trained formally. He went to Boston as a young man before he got married and apprenticed as a carpenter. He became what they called a master carpenter, and he was very good at it. Everyone said so. Today he would be called an artist . . . then he was a manual labourer.” He inhaled and exhaled to remedy his shallow breathing. “After the war was over, there was plenty of work here in St. John’s. People were looking for skilled tradespeople. Houses and buildings were being built throughout the city. As you know, when Newfoundland became a part of Canada, it was a whole new world of hope and prosperity, at least for some people.” He continued his explanation, mindful of her presence, but still refusing to make eye contact. She did not speak. “My father heard about work here for a very important man who no doubt would pay well, Charles Sinclair, a Water Street businessman, well-to-do, as they say. Mother encouraged my father to go in to town to see if he could get work. So, he did.”

  “What exactly did he do for my father?”

  “He did carpentry work in his store as well as in the Sinclair house.” His voice was rising in pace and anger as he recalled his father’s story. “He didn’t like working in here and being away from home. I was only a young boy, but I remember that my father would have to leave for the week, come in here on the train, stay in a boarding house, and work long hours. He made good money, but he didn’t like being away from us.”

  “I understand,” was all she could manage, realizing her words were woefully inadequate. She looked down at her hands that had become clenched, and she quickly released them.

  “He didn’t complain about being away. How could he? Newfoundlanders for generations have known little else than having to go away to work. Most of them travelled hundreds of miles away and worked under dangerous conditions. My uncle worked on skyscrapers in New York, for heaven’s sake. Father could hardly complain. It was, after all, as it was known, an honest day’s wage.”

  “What happened?”

  Finally, he looked directly at her. He had come to the point that meant so much to him, the story so well rehearsed in his mind. Would he now be able to release his words? “Your father apparently was so impressed with Dad’s carpentry skills that he asked him to replace the staircase in the Sinclair home. It was the summer of 1952. Dad had to design a replacement because what was there wasn’t suitable. It took him weeks with a special order of lumber and tools. It was a masterful job, as you know, because it’s still there today. He carved each piece, the spindles and the banisters, and put it together seamlessly. Considering he didn’t have the tools that are available today, I would say masterful is an understatement.”

  “Go on.” She peered at him, her blue eyes narrowing as she feared what was to come.

  “When he finished the staircase, he went to your father’s office downtown. According to the account he told me many times over the years, he waited a long time before the high and almighty Charles Sinclair, as he called him, would see him. Father presented him with his bill. It was what they had agreed upon from the beginning.”

  Feeling anxious, Kevin stood and walked to the window. He held the edge of the drapery and pulled it back just enough to see outside. But he ignored the view. His mind raced as he continued. “Charles paid him for the job, but I don’t think it was the amount that they originally agreed on. He didn’t say much, just tossed along his pay. My father told him he was available for more work if he had it. There was no response. Charles never hired him again, and neither did anyone else in the city. It didn’t take too much questioning to find out that Charles had told everyone in the community that my father was a dishonest man, that he couldn’t be trusted. He said that he overcharged for his work and even suggested that he stole from people’s homes. Word got back to all those who were in the position to hire, Catholics and Protestants alike. In this town, that pretty much covered it.”

  “Didn’t Edgar have recourse? Someone who could have acted on his behalf?”

  Kevin let out an angry laugh. “To what end, Jeanne? Nothing could be proven one way or the other. It’s not like today. Was anyone going to question the word of Charles Sinclair in those days? Would they?” he pressed her.

  “No, not likely.”

  “Charles saw to it that my father had little choice. We had to move away from our home that he had built in Planter’s Bight.”

  Kevin released his hand from the drapes, turned around, and sat in the corner chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, contemplating his every word before he spoke.

  “Are you sure it was my father who said those things against Edgar?” she asked.

  He looked up. Her question angered him. “Am I sure? Who else would it be, Jeanne? Someone started a rumour that he was dishonest. Charles knew in his position he could do whatever he wanted. It was a small community, and he knew everyone who could afford to have such specialty work done. He told them not to hire Edgar Gillis. Plain and simple.”

  “I don’t understand. Did Edgar give you any idea why he thought my father would do that?”

  “No, just that he was sure he did. Oh, he could get some work around Planter’s Bight, but nothing like he was being paid here. Mother and Father wanted my brother and me to get a good education. Dad said he wanted to make sure we would never be beholden to the likes of Charles Sinclair. So we packed up and moved to Nova Scotia. I was a teenager at the time and, believe me, it wasn’t easy to leave Planter’s Bight to live in Halifax. Mother and Father were in their mid-forties. It was hardest on her. Mother hated every moment of it. She left her family here—her brothers and sisters and her parents were still alive then. She was used to living in a small community of a few hundred people, and she loved her church. Suddenly, she found herself in a big city, a strange city to her. My brother and I eventually adjusted, like teenagers do. We were only young, but Mother, no, she couldn’t take it.” His voice strained in anger. “All because Charles Sinclair decided who should and should not work in this city.”

  Jeanne grasped the armrest and searched for the words that she could not find. “What do you want me to say or do? If it’s money you want as compensation, I will pay whatever you think your father was owed.”

  “I don’t want any money, Jeanne,” he said in exasperation.

  “Then what do you want?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I guess I wanted to get back at him for all he did to us. For having so much power. I came here intending to write about him and how he treated his employees. I hoped to interview some people who worked for him who would be willing to tell me the truth. I hoped to expose Charles Sinclair for who he really was.”

  “And you came here to get his house.”

  “Yes. That’s right. And Jeanne, every time I’d walk up and down those stairs I could think of my father and the life he deserved and the life that my mother deserved. But never had.”

  Jeanne squeezed her right hand as she thought about his words. She struggled to find a response. Finally, almost to her surprise, the words began to flow. “You have no idea who my father was or what he was like as an employer, Kevin. What you have is one incident with your father, and from that you have condemned a man for a lifetime
of work.” She took a deep stuttered breath. “I’m sorry that Edgar was treated so terribly. I don’t know why my father could be so mean. I’m not trying to justify or to rationalize it. I do know that he had a very difficult life. He was married to a woman he did not love. His in-laws kept him on a tightrope. Even in the last few years when I asked him about his life, he wouldn’t say much. He was quite selective about what he told me. I guess he wanted to leave me with a certain impression about himself.”

  “A very narrow impression,” he said, and reached for his glass of wine.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s correct.” She looked around. “Maybe all parents do that to their children to some degree. Have you stopped to think that your father tried to give you an impression of himself, something that he wanted you to believe?”

  “What I said happened. I have the papers to prove it.”

  “No doubt it did. But there might be more to it than we know. The staircase that Edgar built is indeed quite beautiful, though I’m sure you regard that as nothing more than hollow praise coming from me.”

  Kevin smiled. “Actually, Jeanne, Joe was very forthcoming about the detail and construction of that staircase. The first time I met him, I mentioned the house, and I asked him why he didn’t want it for himself. He didn’t give me much of an explanation, but he did say it had great potential, and he did mention the staircase. He had no idea, and I didn’t tell him.” He relaxed now that the words had been said.

  Jeanne looked across the room at him. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” he responded, and reached again for his wineglass.

  “Then let me ask you—are you sure that Edgar didn’t do something to bring about the reaction from my father?”

  “I am absolutely certain.”

  “Kevin, there’s really nowhere to go with this. Both men are gone. Neither one can tell us what really happened. You cannot write what is unsubstantiated.”

  He sat solemnly in the chair and replied without looking up. Seemingly, moments went by. He knew that what she said was correct. And he knew that all was lost. Finally, he spoke softly. “We take them on their word and on their memory, don’t we?” He sighed deeply.

  “Yes, we do. And their memories become ours.”

  Kevin sat and thought about his father, his last few days in the hospital when he sat by his side and waited for the inevitable. Only once did Edgar mention his work in St. John’s. But over and over he talked about Annabella, his wife, and how much he let her down by uprooting the family and moving to another province. Kevin had tried to convince him that they had had a good life in Halifax, but Edgar could not be reassured. “If that’s the case, where’s your brother?” he would ask. Kevin had no response. He felt heartbroken at his father’s sense of failure. It had inspired his mission to take the Sinclair house from the family and make it his own.

  Slowly he stood, resigned to what was to come. “Jeanne, I appreciate our time together. You welcomed me into your home, and you’ve been so gracious. The lovely meals, our day trip to Planter’s Bight. I owe you for being so kind. But I’ll leave you to your home, and your father’s home and your memories of him.” He headed to the foyer.

  She followed him. “Perhaps if you had told me at the beginning.” She grasped the edge of the door.

  “You would never have sold me the house if I had. You and I both know that. I’m sorry, for everything.”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said in a half-whisper. “The last man who said that to me walked out of here with suitcases, heading for his own house across town.” She quivered right to her core.

  He looked at her, his face expressionless. “Good night, Jeanne.”

  She closed the door, mindlessly flicking on the light for Hannah and Carrie, who would return later. She wished she didn’t have to wait up for them, that she could simply find the comfort of her bed and a sleeping pill. I’ve had enough for one night, enough for one summer. She wanted to push it all away from herself until tomorrow, when she could take it in, each piece at a time, the events of the past few months.

  She headed for the kitchen and decided on a light supper to distract her. She heated some soup and placed six small plain crackers on the plate next to the soup bowl. She sat at the kitchen bay window, took a few sips of the tomato-based liquid, and then pushed it aside. She reached for a cracker and snapped it into two pieces, ate one, and dropped the other on the plate. Her perfectly manicured fingernail moved around the edge of the linen placemat, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She rubbed her face with her thumb and index finger and then wiped the makeup onto the napkin. She thought back to her father, their time together, and his stories, rare stories that he had told to her for the first time. He talked about his younger years, years before Virginia, when he left Scotland to find adventure in a colony he had only heard of once but, because it had the word “new” in its name, sounded appealing. He had told her about his journey across the North Atlantic and about finally seeing the hills outside the Narrows and welcoming it. About a friend who helped him find work with Boland Limited and making an impression on its owner.

  She opened her eyes and looked out at the back garden, the automatic lights now illuminating the lush green and brightly coloured blooms in the misty night. She was his favourite, he had said, his dear girl, Jeanne Amelia, named for his mother left behind in Scotland, who died too young, and for Hannah’s grandmother. Two strong women whom history never knew. And here she was. A lifetime of being boxed into a place by a husband, children, and a social circle that only cared about appearances. This summer she had reached out to a mother she never knew to find the one thing she had always yearned for but could never get. Approval.

  She was too angry to cry.

  Instead, she pushed away her dishes, stood and walked into the sunroom, turned on one lamp, and sat in her favourite chair. She flicked the tartan throw of Sinclair Red across her lap and rested her head back on the cushion. She waited for over an hour before she heard the front door open and Hannah and Carrie enter.

  She made light conversation and invited them to have a lunch before going to bed. She checked the locks on the door and explained that she wasn’t feeling well and needed some sleep.

  But sleep did not come that night.

  * * * * *

  On the short drive from Exeter Avenue to Hotel Newfoundland that evening, Kevin’s emotions alternated between seething anger and crushing disappointment. He was mostly angry at himself for handling everything so badly. He drove into the hotel parking lot, found a space under the trees, and turned off the rental car. He sat for a few minutes and then slowly got out and headed inside. The hotel lobby was quiet. He nodded to the young woman at the desk and headed for the elevator. Alone, in his hotel room, he automatically reviewed his phone messages. The first message from Joe was that the preliminary plans for the house in Planter’s Bight were ready. Some good news, for a change, he thought, as he loosened his blue and red striped tie, removed it, and tossed it in the nearest suitcase. He poured a glass of red wine and sat down with a thud in the hotel chair by the table in front of the window. He kicked off his shoes and propped his heels on the windowsill. In the distance, he could see a chartered boat full of tourists cruising its way to the dock. The sun had just set in a cloudy sky at the west end of the city. Lights lit up the harbourfront and downtown.

  The end of a long day. An early morning flight and the evening with Jeanne, one he would never forget. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and rubbed them with his fingers. He shifted in the chair and reached for a file and flipped it open with one finger. Staring back at him was the photo of his parents with his brother and himself. He smiled. Behind the photo was the statement. He picked it up again and read it. A thought suddenly crossed his mind. Why didn’t Jeanne already know what happened? Why was the revelation about Charles’s treatment of my father such a surpris
e? Surely, a man like Charles Sinclair would brag about it, especially to his adoring daughter? Almost forty-five years ago. This paper was signed by Charles Sinclair, and my father was paid. What really happened after that?

  * * * * *

  Jeanne watched as each hour of the clock turned during the night. Exhausted, she finally fell asleep shortly after 4:00 a.m. and woke at 9:00 a.m. to the smell of coffee and the unfamiliar aroma of ham and eggs. She slipped out of bed, wrapped her silk robe around her, and pushed on her slippers. Brushing her hair back, she walked downstairs to find Hannah tucked away in what had become her favourite chair, the chintz armchair in the corner between the living room and dining room. She had a cup of tea next to her on the side table, and she was reading the latest edition of Canadian Living.

  “Good morning, Hannah. My apologies for not getting up earlier.”

  “Good morning. No need to apologize. We don’t need anyone catering to us, Jeanne. You should rest as much as you need.”

  She sat in the chair opposite. “I didn’t sleep well,” she explained, rubbing her temples. “It was very late before I finally went to sleep. I’ll be tired all day, I expect.”

  Hannah looked up, concerned. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry,” she said, trying to shrug off her weariness. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes. Carrie made ham and eggs for herself before she left to meet with a friend at one of the downtown churches. An outreach committee that she’s on. Carrie enjoys a big breakfast. I cleaned up the dishes because I’m sure you’re not used to frying pans on the stove. I had one of those English muffins, I think you called them, toasted, with some of that strawberry jam. I have to say it’s the best I’ve ever had. Is it homemade?”

  Jeanne nodded with a smile. “Yes, a good friend of mine recently retired and has taken up several hobbies, including making preserves. He brought me over six bottles during his last visit. I’m afraid I won’t live long enough to eat them all, so please take some when you leave.”