A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  The warm weather, the horse manure, and the fish combined made the harbourfront reek. The place had the air of a disorganized market or a carnival, with its fish and flies and the toothless hangashores who roamed the docks. Yet for all the confusion, there was a system in place to deal with the business of buying and selling salt fish. When John arrived at the start of the culler’s line at Murray’s, he came upon a huge pile of barrels. He wondered what their inventory of empty barrels meant.

  “I don’t care what they gives me for my fish,” said one of the men in line. “I’m off to Boston in a month. This life is nothing but sorrow.”

  “Then you’re in no hurry,” snapped a young fellow with a Broad Cove accent.

  “Move the hell out of the way, then, and let me get my load weighed first,” another man shouted.

  Speculation was rife: maybe there was a surplus of fish. If there was a surplus, having so many barrels made some sense. Not a good sign for prices, but it was what it was. A man didn’t take his fish back to the shore if he was unhappy with the price offered. If his horse could walk the better part of a day, then he was close enough to St. John’s to sell his catch. From Broad Cove, Flatrock, Torbay, even as far away as Bauline, men travelled to town in the hope of selling the year’s final catch for a good price.

  John liked the chance to go to town and meet other men from the coves and bays around the shore. He had worked with many of them at the front, hunting seals. They all fished from spring until September, then hoped for a berth on a sealing steamer in March month. With any luck, they’d earn enough from the hunt to scrape by until they went fishing again.

  A voice rang out over the commotion. “How’s she going, Whelan?”

  John stared at the crowd until he spotted Mike Snow, who had made the much shorter trip from Quidi Vidi Gut.

  “Hoping for the best, Snowy, that’s all,” John called back.

  “Next! Next!” The culler grading the fish gave each fisherman a slip marked Madeira or West Indies. Luckily, there was no tal qual today. Tal qual meant that the fish would not be graded; everyone would get the same price. For the fishermen with the poorest fish, tal qual was a blessing, but for John and others it meant a lower price than they deserved. As the line inched slowly along, dozens of fishermen with their horses and ponies entered the dock area.

  As he waited his turn to meet the culler, John caught a glimpse of some Torbay men. Now there was a group of hard-working men who stuck together. Torbay men sold wood, fish, and spare vegetables to the people of St. John’s. Their women bought wool from the sheep farmers in Flatrock, spun it, knitted socks and sweaters, and took them to town to sell. Torbay people weren’t satisfied just to make fish. If there was an extra stick of wood or any tradable commodity, they brokered it.

  The culler’s voice rose above the hustle and noise of the dock. “Best price for merchantable and Madeira. Best price.” He took samples from the top of John’s cartload, lifting the fish, smelling it, checking the texture and colour and examining it for rigidity. Then he sent John off to the weigh scales. John breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped for a merchantable grade, and that’s what he had received. Next, his load had to be weighed and unloaded. This often took considerable time. Some of the men had brought their children, but John had no son or daughter to help him at the weigh-in.

  As mid-afternoon gave way to early evening, the main bulk of the sellers had met the culler and were either in line for weighing or had left the dock. Most went off to one of the many public houses in the old city for a good belt of rum. There were a handful of taverns among the clutter of buildings—Lucky Catch, the Belmont, Gosse’s. The taverns opened and closed whenever they saw fit. There was no regulation in the liquor trade; it was like the salt fish system. It suited the port city full of thirsty men, including vagabonds who begged the few cents for a cup of grog or spruce beer. At least the city wasn’t as crowded as it had been before the great fire less than a decade ago levelled every building from Long’s Hill to Plymouth Road.

  John tied Prince to a post and got him water; the horse’s nostrils flared as he drank. Then the feed bag was secured around his face. John sat on the cart and watched the parade of people pass by. When Prince had finished, John took the bag and slung it on the cart, and gave some thought to his own hunger and thirst.

  He had always had a liking for Scanlan’s. The proprietor, John Scanlan, had both a tavern and a bond store. Each operated separately. If you had too much to drink in his establishment, he’d ask you to leave, but you could go to his store next door and buy a flask before going on your way.

  John was just about to set his two feet inside Scanlan’s when he saw Tom Clements, a lanky, weasel-faced scrapper from Torbay—and one of the finest bow oars ever to row on Quidi Vidi. Their eyes met, and John nodded to him before he went to the bar to break his thirst with some well-deserved ale and his fast with some penny buns and cheese.

  He felt alone. Not so much because he had entered the tavern by himself, but because there was not one soul there in it whom he recognized as a friend. Also, he was sober, and it seemed that the other patrons had been there for quite some time. The place was a wall of noise, drinkers shoving and yelling, men and rough dockside women. He decided to guzzle a jar of ale, eat his cheese and buns quickly, and then escape from the boisterous crowd, the thick tobacco smoke, and the reek of sweat, fish, hops, spruce, and molasses. But as he pushed his way to the counter, Tom Clements came up beside him.

  “Hello, Whelan. Did you hear that they’re going to build new boats for next year’s regatta?” Clements gave John a wolfish smile.

  “No, I never heard that. I don’t think I plan to row, anyways.” He looked away, not wanting to enter into a conversation with Clements.

  “What? You won’t row, even if we got new boats, faster boats to race in?” Clements jeered.

  John turned around. He would leave without ordering anything.

  Clements stepped in his path. “Now, Whelan, stay and have a yarn with me and the rest of the b’ys. Or are ye getting too old for a few pints with us young fellas?”

  Clements’s buddies arrived and began to mill around him. “Some say you’re no good for a stroke in the races anymore,” one of them bellowed at John. Another put out his hand and tugged at John’s hair, smirking. “Looks like there’s a speckle of grey in that black crop of yours, Sir John.”

  “I can see why you want to pack it in, Whelan.” Clements leaned closer. The rum on his breath made John’s eyes water. But he stood his ground and let Clements spin his drunken nonsense. He looked at the bar. Scanlan was there, nodding at him. He had seen John and was holding out a drink toward him. But John couldn’t reach it. The Torbay crew surrounded him. He badly wanted to leave, but he wasn’t going to run away like a scalded dog.

  There was a sudden tap on John’s shoulder. He looked around; it was Mike Snow—Snowy. “Come on, Whelan, you’d better hop the Jesus out of this place. You’re outnumbered, even with me on your side.”

  Scanlan came out from behind the mahogany counter and wedged himself in between John and Clements. “Now, men, this is a day for you to be toasting the sale of the fall fish, a day to be grateful for your earnings. Clements, you and the other lads from Torbay get back in your corner or you’re out the door. There’ll be no second warning for you.” He pointed to Clements. “I’ll heave you out of here, head first.”

  “Go back to Outer Cove and try to make a few youngsters with Kate,” Clements shot at John, grinning like a devil. “She didn’t mind sharing her gifts with Sammy Gosse before she met you.” Then he turned abruptly and walked away, the other Torbay men at his heels.

  John went after Clements with Snowy in tow. Soon the fists and the chairs and the tables were flying. But before he could get a solid shot at Clements, Scanlan had wrestled his way into the crowd and was knocking at both factions with the stout
stick he kept behind the bar. John backed away. He wanted no part of the tavern anymore; Clements had almost ruined his day. He and Snowy headed for the door.

  “Snowy, thanks for helping me out in there.”

  “No worries, Whelan, b’y. I likes a scrap myself, but they had us about three to one.” He laughed. “That crowd is usually pretty decent, but they’re savages today.”

  John’s heart started racing again; he could feel the warm flush rise to his face as the blood pumped. He wasn’t going back to the cove without some small reward. After saying goodbye to Snowy, he stopped in at the bond store and bought some rum. He was content that he had gotten a fair price for his fish, but upset at what had happened in Scanlan’s. What was wrong with Clements? Why couldn’t he just be happy with the sale of his fish and keep his mouth shut? Besides, what had Clements ever done at the regatta? Sure, he had won races, including this year’s championship, but never with fast times, and always with stacked crews. Where was his record in the fishermen’s race or the championship races? John would give any man his due for fishing or rowing, but he was disgusted with Clements.

  His own record on Quidi Vidi stood for itself. Those who knew rowing had many times witnessed his perfectly synchronized, pendulum-like rowing form. Medium-built, broad shouldered, and with large, strong hands, he had amassed the most championship medals of any oarsman—nine in his twelve regattas. He was in so much demand from crews outside Outer Cove he sometimes, reluctantly, rowed with other crews and won with them, too. He could raise the performance in any boat.

  He untied Prince, gave him more water, and then got up on the cart. They headed west on Water Street over the rough cobblestones, to Adelaide Street, and then cut over to Carter’s Hill. Cracked windows and poorly hung doors creaked and banged in the brisk wind that tunnelled down the street. Peeling grey paint littered the ground. Why paint your house when there was no paint on your neighbour’s?

  The horse trudged along until he felt his master ease back on the reins. John got down from the cart and wrapped the reins lightly around a fencepost. Prince wasn’t about to go anywhere without him. He walked along a steep and narrow street, stopped, and tapped on a door. Three young shaved heads poked their heads between the tattered curtains of the front room and then disappeared. The front door was suddenly opened by the oldest child, who said, “Mother shaved our heads because of the nits,” as she elbowed her brother and sister into place behind her. They all giggled.

  Their mother appeared with an old laundry basket on her hip, fit only to throw away, Kate would say. She smiled, and although her teeth were a bit crooked, the day seemed to have gotten lighter. “Jesus save me. Them youngsters will say anything.” She waved her apron at the children and they disappeared inside the house.“You know, John, you can’t mention a word around them.” She pushed a piece of black hair away from her eyes. “My, that’s some wind blowing.”

  “Thought you’d like a few of these.” He passed the fish to her, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper. “Merchantable grade, it is.”

  “Thank you, John. You’re a good man.” She rubbed one hand over her chapped lips before she spoke. “I managed to find enough money to buy a few potatoes today. A bit of salt fish will go grand with them.”

  “Maggie.” John nodded at her. “There’s lots of fish in the sea.”

  “Yes, John, I knows, but I’m not a fisherman,” she said, laughing. “Them children of mine, I cut their hair off so they won’t catch lice. They don’t have them.”

  “No worries, Maggie, I’m not the health inspector.”

  “They’re the cleanest youngsters on this street.” Her eyes were bright, and she laughed again. “You’re heading home to Outer Cove?”

  “Yes.” He hung his head for a moment and then lifted it and looked her in the eyes. “I tried to have myself a drink at Scanlan’s, but I had to get out of there.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a story for another day. I got to be going. God bless you, Maggie.”

  He drove Prince along Queen’s Road to Bond Street through manure, dogs, and children. How Kate hated this part of town. She hated the closeness of it. She pitied the people. Row upon row of houses, until there was an intersecting street. Then the same pattern of buildings all over again. No extra helping of grub on most of their dinner plates this evening. No need to save room for pudding that wouldn’t be served. He snapped the reins along Prince’s tired flanks. They moved slowly up Bond and then on to Military Road and King’s Bridge. The change from the centre of town to the outskirts was like the difference between war and peace.

  John spent the five-mile ride from the waterfront to Savage’s Bridge thinking about his confrontation with Tom Clements. The sloshing sound from the rum bottle in his pocket brought him no comfort. At last he turned down onto the Lower Road and felt a sense of calm as he observed the gentle flow of the Big River. That was where he went for brown trout and peaceful thoughts.

  He stopped, got down off the cart, and led Prince to the water. He let the horse drink while he sat on the bank watching the evening sun drift toward the western horizon above O’Brien’s Hill and tried to clear his mind of the many events of the day. It wasn’t easy to erase all that had happened in the hours since he’d started out that morning. He thought again about Clements in the pub. It wasn’t just that the man was drunk. There had to be something else. Had the younger crowd from Torbay dared Clements to confront him? The people of Outer Cove and Torbay had nothing against each other, but somehow they had no love for each other either.

  John got up from the riverbank, climbed up on the cart, backed Prince away from the Big River, and turned to ride the last mile home. As he approached his house, dog tired and surly, he could smell the aroma of onions cooking with the fresh meat he had gotten from working on the Kelly farm. He got off the cart, unhitched the horse, and put him away in the barn, giving him a quick rubdown and a couple of flakes of hay. He wasn’t much for hiding his emotions, and there was no masking how he felt anyway. Besides, Kate knew all the ins and outs of him. She noticed his grey mood as soon as he walked through the door.

  “Well, John, there’s no fish on the long cart, so it’s all sold then. Can I get you a cup of tea while I finish making supper?”

  He nodded. “Kate, I got the best grade, not Madeira. I got enough to settle most of the debts, and some left over. I mean, the price was good.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, I made out fine.” He stopped. Only the sizzling of the cooking meat broke the silence. “Kate.” He hesitated. “I met up with that crowd from Torbay at Scanlan’s after I left the docks. The crew from the north side. We had a racket.”

  Kate continued to chop vegetables.

  “They said I’m finished as an oarsman.”

  “Well, John, my love,” Kate said in a singsong voice, “you’re closer to forty than thirty and you haven’t rowed for two years.” The knife chopped against the cutting board. Kate didn’t look up.

  “I may not row again, but I don’t want to be told by another rower, especially one from Torbay, that I haven’t got what it takes to row anymore.”

  “Ah, John, it’s time to give up that rowing. How many championships have you won? Eight? Nine? What do you want with another medal? Sure, you don’t even know where the ones you got are to.”

  John grunted.

  “And there’s another thing, John,” she said, throwing vegetables into the steaming pot. “If you’re not thinking about rowing again, and if the fishing is no good next summer, you can get work as a section man on the roads. There are things to do besides racing. Breaking your back down on that pond, that’s a young man’s sport.”

  “There’ll be new boats next year, Kate. That’s what they said in Scanlan’s. Torbay only thinks they’re the best because they haven’t had a good challenge lately.”

  “What do you have to prove to
anyone about rowing?” With her head slightly tilted and a soft smile on her face, she said, “John, why don’t you lie down there on the daybed while the stew is cooking. I knows you’re not tired.” Her smile grew even softer, until her eyes were like candle flames. “I might have it in me to rub your back or something, who knows?”

  Chapter

  2

  John looked beyond the meadow out to sea. The rolling tide tossed up the white surf over the sunkers in Witty Cove. A warm breeze was sweeping through the cove, carrying the fading smells of summer. As he began to cut the second crop of hay, he spotted Tommy Slater coming toward the house.

  Knapweed, which grew sporadically throughout the field, required considerable force to cut down. John gripped the handles of the scythe a little more firmly so he could cut the weed yet still maintain his cutting pace for the tall grass. Slashing away, he cleared the meadow, exposing its dark yellow bottom. Half an hour before, the grass had blown in the late summer breeze. Now it lay toppled, flattened as if the victim of a storm.

  It was all about pace, whatever work he performed: hauling fishing nets, working in the garden, rowing. The swing of the scythe gave him peace. He ripped through water with the blade of an oar the same way he used the scythe on the grass. The oar slowed when it was out of the water, just like the scythe did in the air. He moved through the meadow, leaving the hay in his tracks; an imprint of his rowing in the meadow that would remain.

  “Mowing the hay, are you, Mr. Whelan?” Tommy slipped through the gap in the fence and ran up to John.

  He kept on mowing his hay, but he smiled at the boy. Perhaps Tommy would stay for a bit.

  “I’d like to try that sometime—maybe when I’m bigger, Mr. Whelan?”

  John nodded and grinned.

  The lad watched him, intrigued. “How do you make the rows of hay so even?”