The waiting room was hot, the oil heater blasting out warm air, and he removed his coat. He’d almost forgotten about the package Sergeant Seymour had handed to him. More for something to do than anything else, he took it out of his pocket and tore open the brown paper wrapping. Inside was a diary. He smiled, recognising it, a birthday present he’d given to his sister when they were young. He opened up the cover, which was lavishly embossed with gold flowers on a background of red velvet. He’d agonised over the choice, he remembered, finally settling on this showy book.
Printed in a big, childish hand that tended to slope off the page, was the first entry. She hadn’t got enough command of her penmanship yet, and this one entry took up three pages. He had helped her with the spelling, but it seemed as if he hadn’t been that good either.
December 12 the year of Our Lord 1872
Today I am eight years old. I got this writing tablet from
William Murdoch, my brother. I have a brother named
Albert. He is one year yunger than me and he is simpul.
My mamma gave me a blue riban for my hair.
Murdoch touched the page with his fingertips. Susanna had loved pretty things, not that she received many.
He continued reading.
January 10 in the year of Our Lord 1873
My poppa wos angry with Bertie. He is also angry with
Will. He is not as angry with me because I am a girl but momma loves us all more.
Sunday. We all went to mass and Father Maloney blessed us. Poppa did not go. Bertie was a good boy.
He turned the page and there was one solitary entry on the next page that stopped his heart for a moment.
March 12
Momma has gone to heaven.
He had been helping Mr. Mitchell in his dry goods store that afternoon. He’d been laying down fresh sawdust on the floor, and for years after, he couldn’t smell that odour without remembering that day. There were only two short entries in the following pages, both about going to church again. Then another laborious record.
November 28. 1873
Bertie, my brother, has been taken by Jesus. His hart was broken.
Again Murdoch touched the page. After their mother’s death, Bertie had withdrawn into a world of his own. He didn’t laugh, and no matter what he and Susanna tried, he wouldn’t play with them anymore. That particular morning he had complained of hurting in his chest, but nobody had taken him seriously because he was always moaning about some kind of ache or pain, which they dismissed as his bid for attention. Harry had gone off to his boat, Will to school, and Susanna was left to tend to the house and get the evening meal. When Will came home, the neighbour from down the road was in the living room, sitting beside the couch bathing Bertie’s face. Susanna had fetched her because Bertie had collapsed, and she couldn’t rouse him. Murdoch had taken over the ministrations, but they had been futile. Eventually, the doctor came from the village, but he said Bertie had suffered a heart seizure. It was common for children like him to have bad hearts, he’d said, in a hateful pedantic voice. “There wasn’t anything anyone could do,” he said, and Bertie obliged by dying at that moment in front of all of them. A little gasp, a sigh, and he was gone.
The memory was still painful. Murdoch had loved his brother even though he was often exasperated with him when he couldn’t do what seemed like simple ordinary tasks. However, his father seemed to hate him from the moment it became apparent Bertie was not normal, as if that reflected on his prowess as a man. He never acknowledged him as his son and frequently beat him unmercifully for small mistakes. Murdoch intervened as often as he could and got the brunt of the anger drawn onto himself.
The clock wheezed again. Quarter past eleven. He wondered if he should read the rest of the diary later. The memories it was stirring were hot. He didn’t particularly want to colour these last moments with his father, especially after what had happened at their last visit. Perhaps he should let sleeping dogs lie. However, he couldn’t resist, and he continued to read.
December 1873
Will and me are now living with our Aunt Emily Weldon who is momma’s sister. She is strict. Her house is pretty. We have been here one week. After Bertie was taken to Jesus, Poppa was angry a lot. He was cruel to Will. Then Will got me up in the middle of the night. It was very dark. It took us a long time to walk to the station. Will had to tell a white lie to the ticket man but he let us buy a ticket. He was kind and gave me a sticky bun with currants in it. Aunt Weldon was surprised to see us. I was afraid she would send us to a Home but Will talked to her. He had to show her his arm which is bad where Poppa hit him. He has promised to work hard. I will lern to sew.
Murdoch touched his left forearm. The scar that ran from his elbow to wrist was jagged and long. The next entry one year later showed much improved handwriting and didn’t take up as much space.
December 12, 1874
I am ten years old today. Aunt gave me a picture of Jesus who is my Savyour. Will gave me a new nib for my pen.
They had stayed with their aunt for the next four years. Those were not especially happy times. His aunt was a schoolteacher at the one-room schoolhouse just outside St. John’s. She had not wanted two young children to look after. She was poorly paid, and it must have been a hardship for her to raise them. A few months after they arrived, she had received a letter from their father enquiring as to their whereabouts. She had decided then that she would not send them back, and that moment was one of the few times of warmth he had experienced from her. Now he could see that she had loved them both as much as she was capable of, but then he didn’t feel it, only constant criticism and carping. Harry had not pursued the matter, and Murdoch had not seen him again or heard anything from him until now.
He began to skim through the pages. Susanna wasn’t diligent in her diary and only managed one or two entries a year, mostly birthday times. He stopped at the entry for 1878 when Susanna had gone away to the convent school when she was fourteen. Her writing was now very neat, a result of many a knuckle rapping by their aunt.
September 7 ′78
I have begun school with the Sisters of St. Ann. I am sharing my room with five other girls. We are all the same age but Emilie is the oldest. She is almost fifteen. I cried when Will left. Aunt Weldon did not come as she was too ill to make the journey. I would have gladly stayed home and taken care of her but she and Will thought this was best as the sisters have a good name. JMJ.
She had drawn a little cross at the top of the page. More scattered entries all about school or references to letters from Will or her aunt. Desperate for some freedom, Murdoch had left their aunt’s home and made his way west. He’d had to do odd jobs along the way to earn money for food, and it was a rough, difficult time when he often went hungry. However, he remembered being happy. He was independent for the first time, beginning to feel his own power as a man. He’d grown tall, and the labouring work had filled out his chest and broadened his shoulders.
The last entry was written on the eve of Susanna becoming a postulant at the Holy Name convent.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to the world and enter into the haven of this convent. May I be worthy.
He closed the book. He hadn’t noticed at first the envelope that was tucked at the back of the diary, addressed to him. He opened it. There were two letters, one a short one from Mother St. Raphael.
Dear Mr. Murdoch. I am sending you these last effects of your sister Susanna Murdoch, known to us in God as Sister Philomena. I cannot express my deep distress and sorrow at the contents of her letter, and I have prayed for many long hours as to whether or not I should send it to you. Obviously my decision was to do so, and the letter is enclosed. I do, however, beg you to keep your heart open to the mercy of Our Lord in whom lies all justice and retribution. If you have a desire to consult with me further, I will make myself available. Yours in God,
Mother St. Raphael
Curious, Murdoch unfolded the second piece of paper.
; Chapter Forty-nine
WALTER STOOD STARING OUT OF THE WINDOW, Sally clinging to his leg, whining. Jess had been gone at least an hour. He’d tried to continue packing up some of the household utensils, but it was as if he had been infected by her lethargy, and he moved slowly although they had to catch the train at seven o’clock. He leaned his head against the cold windowpane. The trouble was, it wasn’t they who needed to vanish, it was more that they needed to lose the past. He had little confidence the move would make that much difference, but he didn’t know what else to do. He hoped that without constant reminders of what had happened, Jess would recover her spirits, that she would come back to him.
“Sally, stop whingeing. You’re getting on my nerves.”
Of course, his harsh tone only made the child cry louder, and in remorse, he swept her up into his arms.
“All right. It’s all right. There, there.”
“Where’s Momma?”
Walter used his sleeve to wipe the child’s tear-stained face.
“Let’s go find her, shall we? Maybe she’s just playing hide-and-seek with us.”
Sally looked doubtful, but he gave her no chance to start up again. He put her back down and went to get her cloak. He really didn’t know where Jess could have gone, but it felt better to move than to stay here wondering.
“Go get your boots, Sally.”
He spoke to his child in a cheery voice and tried to smile at her, but his stomach was tight with fear. He didn’t want to face his own forebodings.
“The frigging bastard.” Murdoch smashed his fist on the table. “The rotten frigging bastard.”
He hit the table over and over, bruising his hand. Suddenly the door from the cells opened and Barker came in, leading his father.
“What’s the matter?” the guard asked.
Murdoch didn’t answer him, but he reached in his pocket and took out all the money he had. It wasn’t much, less than two dollars. He stood up and walked over to him. Harry was eyeing him warily, but he didn’t say anything and went and sat down at the table. Murdoch handed the money to Barker.
“I need to speak in absolute privacy. Will you leave us alone? This is our last chance.”
“You’re not going to try to spring him, are you?”
“Not at all. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Barker stared into Murdoch’s face, puzzled by what he saw there but not quite understanding.
“All right. Ten minutes but then I have to come and check on you.”
Murdoch remembered he had another dollar in his inside pocket, and he fished that out and pushed it into the guard’s hand.
“If you make that twenty minutes, I will appreciate it.”
“I’ll come back then.”
He left, closing and locking the door behind him. Harry looked up at Murdoch.
“There’s hatred in your face, son. What has happened?”
Murdoch thrust the letter under his nose. “This is from Susanna. She’s dead, by the way. I haven’t told you yet. She wrote this. Read it.”
Harry didn’t touch the paper. “When did she die?”
“This last Tuesday. She had a tumour that she wasn’t telling anybody about. She wrote me a letter before she took her final vows, and I have just received it from the prioress. Read it.”
Harry shrugged. “You’ve forgotten I don’t know how.”
Murdoch grabbed the letter. “Then I’ll read it to you …”
“No! I don’t want to hear it. What’s done is done and forgotten.”
“It’s not. It never will be as far as I’m concerned.”
Suddenly, Harry got to his feet. “You’re just aching for a fight, aren’t you?”
“I learned from a master.”
“Then you shall have it.”
Murdoch saw the blow coming and deflected it with his left forearm. With his right fist he hit his father hard, so that Harry jerked backwards.
“You frigging bastard,” said Murdoch, and he hit him again, knocking him to the floor.
Harry lay back. His nose was dribbling blood and snot.
Murdoch came around the table and stood over the fallen man. “Did that jolt your memory? If it didn’t, maybe we can continue until it does.”
He stared down at his father. So many times he had imagined such a confrontation, but now that it had happened, the triumph was no more than ashes.
Harry took a long time to get to his feet. Murdoch braced himself for the retaliation and he was ready for it, would have welcomed it, but his father merely leaned against the wall, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. There was a red mark already appearing on his cheekbone. His flare of anger had evaporated, and he looked defeated.
“I assume you felt you had a good reason to do that.” “I do indeed.”
“Tell me what your sister wrote. I’d like to know.” “Is that so?”
Murdoch’s mouth felt sour to him, and he was ashamed of himself for losing his temper like that. He walked around to the other side of the table.
Harry righted the chair and sat down. “I’ve already told you I’m sorry for my ways. I’d give my right arm if I could go back and change the way I was to all of you, but I can’t.”
His voice was steady and sincere, but to Murdoch it was like pouring kerosene on a fire.
“Sorry isn’t enough, Harry! You can say ‘I’m sorry’ now that you’re about to be strung up, but sorry isn’t going to wipe out what you did.”
Murdoch’s voice was loud, and he glimpsed the curious face of the guard peering through the window, but Barker didn’t intervene and went back down the hall.
“Susanna says she was present the afternoon our mother died.”
He stared at his father, hoping for some sign of uneasiness, some flash of guilty recognition, but there was none.
Harry leaned forward, his hands on the chair as if his back was sore.
“Why don’t you make your point, Will.”
“My point! This is not a debate we’re having where I make a point and you can make a rebuttal…. Susanna says she saw you hit Momma, and she fell and struck her head on the stove. She was dizzy. You insisted she go to the shore because you couldn’t do without your goddamn whelks. Is it coming back to you now, Harry? You do remember how fond you were of your whelks, don’t you?”
Harry’s nose had stopped bleeding, and he was leaning on his elbows, his head in his hands.
“Well? Is it coming back to you now? She should have gone and lain down, probably should have gone to see Dr. Curtis, but you wouldn’t let her. You wanted your dinner nice and fresh.”
He saw that Harry was weeping, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Mother didn’t have any fight left in her. She obeyed as she always did. She went to the shore, and she slipped on the rocks because she was dizzy – because you had slapped her across the head. What do you have to say to that, Harry? I’d say that was tantamount to murder, wouldn’t you?”
This time there was a reaction from Harry. He drew in his breath sharply. “I … I would like to deny that ever happened, but if Susanna says that is what she saw then I believe it did. If I could give my right arm to bring Mary back, to beg her forgiveness, I would.”
“You’ve already given your right arm, I’m afraid,” jeered Murdoch. “You’d better say your left. And then maybe your legs because in my books Bertie was also a casualty. He died because Momma was gone, and he knew you hated him. He had nothing to live for. Poor, sad, sad Bertie. You should add him to your list of regrets. You didn’t directly put a knife in their hearts, but you might as well have.”
Harry gave a groan and shook his head for all the world like a tormented bear.
Murdoch went on. “You don’t remember, eh? How convenient for you. Just like you don’t recall killing John Delaney.”
His father’s face was twisted with grief. “Maybe this is retribution for what I did do, but surely that is for Our God to decide, not you or even me. I will face Hi
m at the day of judgement, and He will decide if I am worthy of forgiveness or not. Or would you rather take that decision into your own hands?”
Suddenly, Harry seemed grey and frail, as if all of his life force had been drained away. Murdoch felt as if he himself were being torn in two. His own anger subsided, leaving not forgiveness, that was too far away, but a wrenching, unbearable sorrow. His father could weep and regret to the bottom of his soul what he had done, but it would not change what had happened. Both his mother’s and brother’s lives had been shortened because of this man. He had blighted them while they were alive, and nothing would make up for that.
The door behind him opened, and the warden entered. He saw Harry’s bloodied face.
“Goodness me, what’s happened here?”
Harry answered him quickly. “I fell and banged my head, sir.”
“Fell how?”
Murdoch interrupted. “The truth is we were fighting. I hit him.”
“You were fighting with your own father?”
“Yes, sir. I regret to say I was. I regret, not because we are related by blood, but because I am younger and fitter and it was an unequal fight.”
Massie looked from one to the other and then at the opposite door. “Where is Barker?”
As if on cue, the guard’s face peered in through the window. Seeing the warden, he came into the room immediately.
“Mr. Barker, please take Mr. Murdoch back to his cell. And tend to that bruise on his cheek. I don’t want the clergy to think we are the cause. When you’ve finished your shift, I’ll speak to you in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barker put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t resist but stood up like a man sleepwalking. At the door he turned and looked at Murdoch. “I thank you for what you’ve already done for me, Will. I believe I’m ready to face my Maker. But I tell you, the punishment for my sins, my most grievous sins, is not for you to decide.”
Let Loose the Dogs Page 30
