A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

John stopped. “Tommy, you know, when I rows hay, I got to use a certain rhythm. That’s what it takes to do the work.”

  “You said ‘rows,’ Mr. Whelan. You means ‘mows,’ don’t you?” Tommy cocked his head.

  “Did, I?” John cleared his throat. “Well, when I mows the hay . . .” He shuffled his feet.

  “I thinks you said ‘rows’ because you’re a rower, Mr. Whelan. My mother says you’re a great rower. But she says you don’t want to row no more.”

  John quickened the swing of the scythe. He felt a sudden rush inside him and a slight change in the rhythm of his movements. The breeze seemed to turn suddenly to a gust, distorting the calm in the meadow. He swung the scythe; the cutting was quicker and his heart raced, the same way it did when he was waiting for the call from the captain of the course; his nerves felt like they did at the start of a race. Tommy gazed up at him, uncommonly quiet. The wind moved against John’s back. The sound of the slashing blade in the grass murmured between the man and the boy. The scythe dived and curved out of sight, then came back up to toss the fallen grass aside. He saw the blade of the scythe; he felt an oar. His grip on the handles tightened and his shirt stuck to his back as the sweat rolled down his neck onto his broad shoulders.

  “Mr. Whelan, the McCarthy brothers are always on about rowing in the races when they’re down at the beach. Dan says he’s smoother than anyone who ever touched an oar, and Denis says he’s like a steamship full of power when he pulls that number four. Rhymes, it do!”

  John looked at Tommy and saw the boy he’d once been. How he would stay in the field with his father, endlessly asking questions. He hesitated, trying to find a way to compliment the McCarthy brothers. “Yes, Tommy, those brothers are real characters, and, you know, damn good rowers.” John smiled. “Afraid of nothing, they are. I gets a laugh out of what they says sometimes myself.”

  “They says they wants to get a berth at the seal hunt, and the only way to get that berth is to row for one of the merchant companies in the regatta.”

  John stood silently listening to the boy. “Do you believe all that talk?”

  “The McCarthys says they’re going to row next year. Are you going to row, Mr. Whelan?”

  “Tommy, I got to keep at this hay. Why don’t you drop over and see Mrs. Whelan? I thinks she’s baking today.” He watched Tommy speed across the meadow, jumping the newly cut rows of hay so quickly it was as though his feet never touched the stubble.

  He laid the dulled scythe aside and walked stiffly to the house. His legs felt tired. A few days for drying and the hay would be ready to store in the loft.

  “Is Tommy still here, Kate?”

  “Yes. He came downstairs for a bit of molasses bread, then went right back up again. Flying up them stair treads like a sparrow on the wing.”

  “What’s he doing up there?”

  “It’s that little model punt, John, he went up to see it. He loves it. Why don’t you give it to him?”

  “Yes, girl. I’ll go get him. He should be getting home. His mother must be wondering where he is.”

  He went up to the spare bedroom. Tommy lay on the floor on his stomach, one hand under his chin, the other holding the little punt. He was moving the yellow boat around and around in circles on the wooden floor and tipping it back and forth. “Watch out,” he said as he slowed the boat down. “Careful of that big wave.”

  “I made that punt, Tommy. Pass it up to me, my son.”

  John took the tiny oars from the dresser, put them in the boat, and placed it Tommy’s hands. The boy looked up at him, desire and disbelief in his eyes. “It’s yours to keep. You can take it to the river if you want. Just don’t go near the landwash or the tide will drag it out and you’ll have a boat no more.” He waved Tommy down the stairs and followed him.

  “I suppose we’ll see you tomorrow, Tommy,” said Kate. “Don’t run on the way home, now. You might fall and break the little boat.”

  Chapter

  3

  “Kind of cool out tonight.” Kate glanced over her shoulder, watching as John headed to the porch. “Going over to Pat Fox’s?”

  “Not tonight, no. I’m going a bit farther. Watt Power’s.”

  “Middle Cove? You’ll be gone a few hours.” She turned up the wick on the lantern. “I suppose it will be eleven before you’re back. You haven’t been at Watt’s house since Easter, have you?” She wiped her hands on her apron and went to him, placing her hand on his arm.

  “Probably then.” He buttoned up his jacket, making sure his neck was covered. “Watt should hear what Clements had to say.”

  “Is it him that cares, or you?”

  “Kate, they were drinking, but they’ll remember what was spoken.” He lifted the latch. “Anyway, I’m off. I don’t want to be too late getting home.”

  “He’ll be glad to see you. Everyone loves a bit of company.”

  The light from the full moon was a welcome guide as he made his way along the tree-shadowed Pine Line. Traces of light squeezed between the trunks of the matchstick fir clustered along the cart path. A mouse skittered among the leaves, searching for food.

  He tried to keep a clear head as he walked the final few steps to Watt’s yard. How would he get around to what he’d come for? Would Watt think he was there for some other reason? How much time would pass between the handshake at the doorstep before he felt he could start the rowing talk? As he approached Watt’s house, John could see the glow of the kerosene light against the kitchen walls through the window. He knocked on the porch door, and entered.

  “Hello, Whelan. What are you doing here? You lost or something?” Watt held out his hand. “Come in, b’y.”

  The spruce popping and burning in the pot-bellied wood stove broke the quiet of the house and eased John’s mind. The flame inside the lantern rose and fell in its search for air.

  “How did the fish sale go, John? I heard you got a good price.”

  “It went well, Watt—same as always. Big crowds around the dock.” John made his way to the kitchen table and sat down. “But I had a few anxious moments after I got paid.”

  “What happened?” Watt raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, time enough for that. You keeping well, Watt? How old are you now?” The chair creaked beneath him.

  “I’m as old as the fog, John.” Watt grinned around his pipe.

  “You’ll soon be sixty, won’t you?”

  “Fifty-nine in November.”

  “You don’t seem to be slowing down any. It must be all that good grub you’re eating.” They both laughed.

  “Well, John, it’s certainly not the number of times in the last year or so that I’ve put my arse in the pew to listen to Father Clarke that’s keeping me in good health.” Watt filled the kettle and put it on the stove. “It’s one thing to preach to the masses, but to single out one person from that high and almighty perch . . .”

  John nodded. He remembered the scene well enough. “Let me tell you about one recent visit I made to a parishioner,” the priest had said, pausing for a moment, before going on to tell the congregation about dropping in on a certain rowing expert in Middle Cove. The expert had been discovered passed out at the kitchen table, with a rowing medal around his neck and a half-empty rum bottle in front of him. Watt had risen from his pew, left the church, and had not gone back since.

  “Well, I’ve stayed off the grog for a year, just to keep a promise to myself that I could do it,” Watt said, pointing his thumb in the direction of his chest. “You know, take the pledge.” John didn’t let on that he had heard all this before.

  “Father Clarke and the archbishop got a promise to keep, too.” Watt pointed to the picture of Jesus on the wall. “They pledged that half of what people from the cove put in the collection box on Sunday in Torbay would go toward a church in Outer Cove and we’d have
our own parish.” He took a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. “I don’t miss the long walk to Torbay on Sunday.”

  “I heard the regatta committee is building new shells for next year’s races. Bob Sexton is building one for Job Brothers right now, down at his house on Colonial Street. He thinks he has the plans to make the fastest boat ever.”

  Watt dropped the tea into the pot. “Fast boats? That depends. Depends mostly on the crew that’s in the boat. I’ll tell you one thing, that crew of Roches and Kinsellas won’t have any advantages in a fast boat. They have the size, I’ll give them that, but they’re stubborn and they don’t know how to move the water away from the boat. That’s what makes your boat fast and your boat first.” Watt left the teapot and placed his hands flat on the table, sliding them along, one hand inching slowly ahead of the other. “You got to move the water away from the boat. Now, John, you knows a few things about that.”

  “What if a good crew had a chance to row that new boat of Sexton’s?” John leaned forward in his chair. “Would you take them on? Be their cox?”

  Watt made his way slowly to the stove and lifted the damper. The flames danced against the ceiling, casting Watt’s shadow large against it. He stoked the embers and placed the damper back in place. The ticking of the clock echoed through the kitchen, interrupted only by the sound of burning wood collapsing into the stove’s grate.

  “Do you want to be part of that crew, John?” He cocked his head and turned toward the kitchen table. “Haven’t you given up the pond? I thought you’d had enough of that racket.” He took a cup and saucer out of a cupboard, poured the dark tea into the cup, and put it in front of John. A tin of milk sat on the table next to a sugar bowl. Watt got a spoon out of the drawer and placed it beside John’s cup. Then he got a cup of tea for himself and sat down across from John.

  “Truth is, the pond and I parted ways, but I won’t part with a challenge.” John slammed his fist down on the table. The cups rattled and spilled tea into saucers. “That Torbay crew, Clements and them—they got me riled. After I sold my fish at Murray’s, I went to Scanlan’s and they come around me and poked at me. That Clements is one mouthy bastard. I had to get out of there quick, never got a drink or nothing to eat. They were drunk, but not that drunk. Just cocky because they won the championship this year.”

  “Against a crew of footballers, a bunch of townies!” Watt laughed. “Nine twenty-nine in the Glance. Sure, I rowed faster than that in the Myrtle fifteen years ago.”

  “I’m not one to issue a challenge, but I can’t ignore one either. I was thirty-six in June, but I have to row against that crowd.” John folded his arms across his thick chest. “This is how I sees it. Experienced crews, they don’t want a new boat. They’d rather stick to a boat they know. They don’t want to spend time getting used to a boat that hasn’t sat in the water before, never turned the buoys.”

  The wood burned slowly, turning the grate red. A sudden gust of wind raced down the chimney and shook the funnel pipe. Watt sat back in his chair and stroked his long whiskers.

  “There might be a good reason to row, Watt.” John shifted in his chair, signalling he was about to leave. “You knows what a good boat builder Sexton is. I think you and I should talk to him real soon. Go see him next week, maybe.”

  “Hah! Your run-in with Clements wasn’t all bad, then. At least he told you about the new boat.” Watt winked at John, and then they both rose from the table and shook hands.

  “Good night, John. I’m glad you dropped over. Watch your step, now, and careful the mickaleens don’t chase you going back the road. ”

  “Good night, Watt. Don’t forget about going to see Sexton. And you best start thinking on who’ll be the men to make up the rest of our crew.”

  John closed Watt’s gate behind him and began the walk along the rocky path for home. The moon hung high in the cooling September sky, overlooking houses, barns, and fences. Everything was motionless, perfectly arranged, and at rest. Only the scuffing sound of his boots against the dirt road broke the night silence. He hoped Kate would be in bed when he arrived home, so he could watch her sleep before he slipped under the warm covers.

  Chapter

  4

  The herring fishery was short, a mere week. Herring was an odd migratory fish. It would swim in one area of the sea for a decade, then suddenly disappear. Five cold, moneyless months lurked ahead. If the cod and herring catch were poor, a man had to be prepared to go work elsewhere for the winter. People from the cove would not take poor relief.

  “Nugents have next turn at the barking pot,” shouted Tommy as he ran across the beach, dodging the many boats that crowded the shore.

  “Push off!” Another boat left the beach, then another, until all of them were clear of their moorings and off to the sea again. First to launch were the McCarthy brothers, Din and Dan. They stroked steadily away from shore, their legs, arms, and backs working together as they heaved the blue water aside. Their bodies were perfectly formed to row against the unyielding sea. They let the wake of the boat show those on shore their muscle.

  A lone figure was standing on the grassy bank above the beach, watching the tiny boats leaving the cove.

  “That can’t be Watt Power,” Denis grunted. “Some odd to see him around here. Must be finished his work for the day.”

  “Wonder how long he’s been up there?” Dan grinned and heaved the water back toward the stern. “Didn’t see him until we got away from the shore.” They upped the pace of the stroke rate. “Well, everyone can see him now.”

  They sent the boat out through the cove with perfectly pitched ash oars, their thole-pins made of black spruce, strong enough to resist the fulcrum force of the blades against the dense sea. The McCarthys were connected by birth and connected to the boat and to the water. The boat moved quickly. They were almost out of sight of the beach when Dan saw the figure of a boy walking toward Watt Power on the grassy bank.

  “The beach is some busy today, so many boats. Mr. Power, do you like herring fishing?” Tommy sat down next to Watt.

  “You spends a lot of time down here at the beach, Tommy. What do you notice about how the men row the boats?” Watt scratched his scruffy beard. His eyes shifted from side to side, examining every motion of every boat that raced out into the bay.

  “The men who row the best, they always talks about the regatta,” said Tommy, poking the ground with a piece of driftwood. “When they talks about Torbay before they heads out on the water, they makes their boats go faster. It’s like they’re racing.”

  Watt and Tommy got up and left the grassy bank, strolling together up the road away from the action on the water, away from the boats that moved against the tide, against the odds of the ocean.

  It had been one week since John and Watt met, and September was vanishing along with the warm days. John tackled Prince to the carriage and set off to meet Watt at the top of Barnes Road. He knew Watt had been tempted to go on his own to see Sexton, and he was glad Watt kept his promise about taking him along. They’d have to go in to town late in the day and wait until Sexton arrived home from his day working at the Carriage Works.

  Watt slowed when they reached a long, odd-looking building that was attached to a house. “Here it is,” he said. The shadows of trees hung against the timbers of Sexton’s house. A crow on an overhead branch took flight, flapping its wings loudly. They were taking the risk that Sexton would make time to see them.

  They heard footsteps behind them and turned and looked back along the street. A man was hurrying along it, carrying a tool box and an empty lunch basket. When the boat builder reached them, he said, “Hello, Power,” and reached out and shook Watt’s hand. He nodded at John. “What are you doing out this way?”

  “Well . . . we’re here to see the boat you’re building. I mean, we heard you’re building a boat and we’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.�
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  Sexton looked at Watt and then at John. He took a watch from his breast pocket and checked the time. “I don’t usually let people see my works in progress, b’ys.”

  “Come on, Bob. I thought you were a friend.” Watt looked disappointed.

  “Well, all right, then. Whelan, you’re no stranger to the pond either. Follow me, lads.” Sexton led them past his house and into the back garden, where he had constructed the most extraordinary extension to his house for the boat. The shell was fifty feet long. He had needed a space of sixty feet in which to work, so he had built a linny onto his home. It looked strange from the outside, just six feet high, with few windows and a tin chimney pipe piercing the roof. Watt wondered what passersby thought when they looked at the odd piece of construction. Maybe they figured it was a small rope factory, an oddly arranged system of spools and coils set up without permission from the town.

  The men entered the linny. Watt had never seen a racing shell under construction before. He thought of Phil Mahoney. Mahoney had built many boats, including the Myrtle. Watt knew every inch and curve of that legendary shell—he had rowed her swiftly to a course record in 1885. Fifteen years later the record still stood, despite a new generation of great rowers in fine boats.

  “You don’t think this boat will be faster than the Myrtle, do you?” Watt asked. “How could you build a better boat than the Myrtle or the Glance?”

  “You’d need a good crew to make this one move quickly, but she will.” Sexton slowly walked the length of the partially built shell. “It’s the hull. Dr. Rendell designed her.”

  “She can’t be faster than the Myrtle,” Watt countered. “I rowed her in a light breeze to the course record. She sliced the water like a fish. Like magic.”

  “The man got brains to spare. I was building yachts, and Rendell’s a sailor. I built him a carriage once, too.” Sexton sat on a sawhorse and crossed his arms. “You know, if Rendell never had to be a doctor, he could have been an engineer or a boat builder.