by Gerard Doran
“Well, someone changed the Blue Peter’s oar.”
“Don’t look at me, my son. I didn’t change the damn oar!” Tilley turned and looked at the doctor and Sexton. “This place can get pretty busy this time of the year. There’s only me here to handle everything. I can’t watch everyone.” He took a pouch of tobacco and papers from his pocket. When the cigarette was rolled, Dr. Rendell took out his pipe and struck a match for both of them.
“There were two crews on the pond besides Outer Cove just then,” said Dr. Rendell.
Tilley puffed on his cigarette. “They were just a couple of crews from the Battery, young fellas. They wouldn’t do anything like that. They hardly know how to row, much less mess around with oars.”
“Someone switched the oar,” said Sexton. “I put the new oars in the boat yesterday. You were here with Mr. Job when we done it. Who was the last crew to use the Blue Peter before us?”
Sexton, Rendell, and the Outer Cove crew followed Tilley as he wandered out through the door, took his half-smoked cigarette from his lips, and threw it in the pond. It hissed as it hit the dark water. “Torbay. Neddy used her last.”
The late evening sun was fading over the Hanlon farm when Croke got home. “How did you make out with the row?” asked his father, Will. “You didn’t tell us the crew was rowing for time when you left this evening.” His tone was accusing.
“How did you know we rowed for time?” Croke stalled. He was tired and hungry and in no mood for his father’s moods.
“Young Tommy Slater told me.”
“No doubt!” Din shrugged his shoulders and threw his hat on a chair.
“Well, tell us, then. Did you row for time? Break a record?” said his mother, Catherine, as she placed a fork and knife next to his dinner.
“I busted my oar into pieces about six minutes into the row.”
“That was unfortunate, my son. What will happen now?”
“Watt wants us to try again tomorrow or Saturday. We had a great run going, and an excellent turn.”
“You must be some disappointed.”
Din looked at his dinner, and then walked across the kitchen to the hall. He needed to wash, to change. Blood had soiled the rear of his pants. He hoped there was still some of that ointment left in the jar.
His sister Mary was coming down the stairs. She grinned at him. “Is it fun rowing with your buddies?”
Din bared his teeth at her. “Fun? Any man who would row for fun would go to hell for a pastime.”
Chapter
24
Jack Nugent hadn’t slept a wink. At least he didn’t think he had. Between the wind and the steady pounding rain, and Mary up every two hours with the new baby, it had not been a restful night. When dawn broke, he was ready to get up. He was tired, but it was better to be doing something than lying awake in bed.
He could barely see the meadow through the rain-smeared window. What he did see, he didn’t like. He put on his boots and strode out into the dim morning light, tripping against the dray and falling face first into the mud. He turned over and laughed. A rude way to meet the morning! He got to his feet and went to the meadow. The whole field of cut hay was drenched by the heavy rain. He looked at the fish flake. Thank God Mary had stacked and covered the fish last evening. Like most of the women, charged as they were with the work of the flakes, she had a fine nose for weather. He looked back at the meadow dolefully. He’d need more than prayers to save the wet mass in the field.
On his way back to the house, he stopped at the coop to collect some eggs. Watt kept telling them to eat as much as they could in the days leading up to the regatta. “Get lots of grub in you!” Well, Watt didn’t need to tell him to eat. Eating was one of the best things in life, after all. The eggs would taste good along with a bit of bacon and some fish. His mouth started to water.
As he gathered the eggs, Jack thought about Victor, Dowden’s boy. He had just died of meningitis. Victor and his mother had brought chicks to them last summer. Father Clarke, the old bastard, wouldn’t let the Dowdens bury Victor in the cemetery in Torbay. The Dowdens were the only Protestant family in Logy Bay. “Those black Protestants,” Father Clarke said. “Worse than lepers.”
By noon, the wind was rising. Jack thought if he could just free the grass from the wet ground, it might have some hope of drying. There wasn’t much hope that the crew would row today. He hitched his horse to the cart and set out to see the McCarthys.
“What do you make of the wind?” asked Jack. “Do you think we’ll row this evening?”
Dan and Din looked at each other and laughed. They were out looking at their meadow, which was in the same shape as Jack’s.
“There’s always a big westerly blow after a good rain, you knows that,” Dan yelled over the wind. “When it comes up like this, it can stay like it for days.”
“Guess we’ll see how things are in the morning.” Jack got back on the cart. The wind gusted, whipping the stunted spruce along the road. They looked as though their roots were struggling to hang on to the rocky soil.
Saturday was windier than friday. Huge whitecaps raced off shore, tumbling and breaking.
John woke to find the door to the barn loft had blown off its hinges. It lay broken in the yard.
“You’re not going to try and fix that in this wind, are you?” asked Kate.
“I got bigger worries today than that broken door. We rowed six minutes on Thursday, we didn’t row yesterday, and it don’t look like we will row today.”
“Sure, we lives in a windy country, John.”
John looked out the window. Prince stood with his rear end to the wind. His long, black tail flicked around his flanks like a birch broom in the fits.
“I’m going to Watt’s. If we can’t row until Monday, we could be in a real mess.” John left his meal of salt fish and brewis on the table and opened the porch door. A mighty gust blew into the kitchen, sending the framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus over the daybed a-tilt.
When John arrived at Watt’s, he was sitting on his front doorstep with his right arm resting on his knee and his hand tucked under his chin. His unlit pipe dangled from his mouth. His hair and shirt were fluttering in the wind.
“I didn’t bother putting any tobacco in it. I can’t light a damn match in this.” Watt put his pipe in his pocket. “I know, John, I know. What’s worse is that we can’t row on Sunday, even if the weather improves.”
“I don’t like it,” said John. “If we had finished our spin on Thursday, I wouldn’t be so concerned. It’s the uncertainty. I don’t know how you feels. I think Mr. Mare would allow us to row on Sunday if the wind drops off. He was a rower, got rowing in his blood.”
“He’s the best president we’ve had in years. Not like some of them on the committee, who are only there because of their names. Some of them couldn’t haul a clothesline, much less an oar.” Watt spat on the ground.
“If Mare goes along with it, that’s only half the problem solved,” said John.
“What do you mean?”
“Watt, if we can’t work at the hay on Sunday without permission from Father Clarke, we certainly can’t row.” John sat down on the step next to Watt.
“Father Clarke don’t give a damn about us.” Watt stood up. “Why would we need his blessing to go for a spin?”
“Watt, you knows people will start talking if we don’t get permission from Father Clarke.”
“Well, he’s not going to like seeing my face at his door begging to go rowing on the pond. I haven’t been to church for almost a year.” Watt shook his head. “I can’t see him letting us row on Sunday, John. It’s not work in his eyes. Rowing don’t put food on the table. And we’re practising to beat the living daylights out of the crew from his parish.”
“We’ve still got to ask him, Watt. Monday is the l
ast spin before the races. If we don’t row tomorrow, it means we’ve only rowed once in four days. For six minutes.”
“Six minutes and ten seconds.”
“If the wind drops in the morning, I’ll head out to see Mr. Mare. I knows where he lives, on Winter Avenue. We got to try, Watt.”
“If Mare says yes, who’s going to Torbay to ask Father Clarke if we can row?”
“We’ll all go. As a crew.”
“Why do we put ourselves through all this? You’d think I’d have better sense after all these years.” Watt tugged at the pipe in his pocket.
“Now, Watt, if you weren’t at the rowing, you’d be bored to death. Say a prayer the wind dies overnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Watt grinned. “I’ll ask Kitty to put the prayer beads on the clothesline.”
Martin Boland looked out the open window of his tiny cottage on the Rocky Hills. It was Sunday morning. The wind had finally exhausted itself and the sun was shining on a dark blue sea. He was waiting anxiously for John to come back from visiting Mr. Mare. It was a perfect day for a row. He looked up the wooded laneway that led to the road for the tenth time. This time his anxious gaze was rewarded by the sight of Prince coming through the opening in the trees. John pulled to a stop beneath the window.
“Great news, Martin, they’re putting the shells out for us. I wasn’t the only one at Mr. Mare’s this morning.” John smiled. “If you’re ready to go to Mass, then come on with me now.”
“Just a minute, John. I got to get a few pennies for the poor box.”
John looked at the shining sea while he waited, feeling the beauty of the day.
“How do you think Father Clarke will take to us asking to go rowing?” said Martin, climbing aboard John’s carriage.
“If he don’t drop dead of a heart attack when he sees Watt sitting in the pew this morning, we got some hope, please God.” John flicked the reins. “We’re going to get the McCarthys on the way. Nugent is getting Croke and Watt. Won’t hurt to say a few prayers before we get there.”
Mass was over. Watt took the lead up the lane toward the rectory, and the men followed quietly. He knocked on the door, hoping the housekeeper would answer. He felt like buying time. The curtain on the window of the door moved slightly. The door opened, but it wasn’t the housekeeper. It was Father Clarke himself. “What can I do for you, Watt Power?” The expression on the priest’s round face was guarded.
Watt cleared his throat. “Father, you knows with all the windy weather these past days we haven’t been able to row—on the pond, that is. We couldn’t practise for the races, and there’s only a few days left.”
“So, you are asking me for permission to row on Sunday, isn’t that right, Mr. Power? Is that the one thing that brought you to church today?”
“If it wasn’t for the windstorm, we wouldn’t be bothering you.” Watt moved back from the door.
“God created the wind, Mr. Power. Perhaps He is not a regatta supporter.” Father Clarke permitted himself a smile.
“Yes, Father.” Watt cleared his throat a second time. “We’re here to ask you if we could work today. Work at the rowing.”
“What good works have you done lately, Mr. Power? And why have you been absent from church? Do you covet rowing so much that you would come here and lie to me to fulfill your desires?” Father Clarke crossed his arms. He looked down at Watt on the doorstep. “You should not just avoid sin, but the occasion of sin.”
Watt kept his feelings out of his voice. “I have my failings, Father, but I works hard and I helps my neighbours and I goes to church. But not to Holy Trinity.”
“Is that right?” Father Clarke stroked the white collar under his chin. “You want to work at rowing on a Sunday?” He pursed his lips and stepped toward Watt. “Are your gardens kept, the hay cut and dried? Is your fish cured?”
“Yes, Father, yes.” John spoke for them all. “We came here to see you with the best of intentions.”
“Sure, we loves God’s wind, Father. It dried me hay yesterday,” Nugent joked. Dan jabbed him in the back.
“Father,” Croke called out. “We are in good favour with our farms and the fish.”
“Where did that young fella learn how to talk like that?” John whispered to Watt.
The priest stepped back into the doorway of his house. His face relaxed. “I give you my blessing to row on this holy day. You must kneel down now, and give thanks to the Lord for His blessings, including boats and ponds and strong backs.”
The men knelt, and the priest prayed. Then they were back on their feet, heading toward the carriages.
“We weren’t long going about it when Father Clarke asked us to say a prayer,” said Din.
“Yes,” said Jack. “The whole crew was on their knees quicker than a bunch of altar boys.”
“I believes I have just witnessed a miracle,” said Din to Dan.
Ponies hauling lumber and canvas milling around the shoreline and the sound of sledgehammers on posts echoing across the pond were the first signs of the transformation that would alter the banks of Quidi Vidi in anticipation of the thousands who would appear there on Wednesday, August 7. Watt watched the hustle and bustle for a moment and then turned to the crew. “Three days off don’t mean nothing,” he said, as they got ready for their second-last practice.
“It means my arse isn’t as sore as it could be,” said Dan. The rest of the crew laughed.
Watt sighed. Rowing for time today was out of the question.
Before they pushed off the wharf, Watt reminded them that the next time they rowed the full course at race pace would be in the fishermen’s race on Regatta Day. “The pond is perfect for a poke, b’ys, but today we needs to prepare for Wednesday.” His crew needed one more row to get the timing right. The endurance was there; they just had to make sure the balance was, too. Once they got their balance, the boat would gain speed from their strength. Two practices to go. Four days until the races. It was Sunday. Watt took off his hat and said a silent prayer that they would be in communion with the pond.
Chapter 25
Every window in the house was raised as high as possible to the breezeless air. The heat from the stove finally began to lessen. Kate put John’s supper in the oven box, away from the flies that buzzed through the kitchen, ignoring the yellow flypaper hanging from the ceiling.
“Aunt Kate, can I go swimming?” asked Tommy, sticking his head in through the kitchen window.
“Swimming?” Kate ran the back of one hand across her forehead and shook her head.
“No, my son. You got work to do. Them hens can’t feed themselves.”
The boy’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Sure, Walter Carroll and Walter O’Rourke are going. I won’t be long, honest.”
“I don’t know, Tommy.”
“It’s so hot, and the river is nice and cool. Please? I’ll be back real soon.”
“‘Real soon, is it? You better be home before dark or the mickaleens will get you. And them hens got to be fed first.”
“I’ll feed them, I will. And I’ll get back before dark, I promise—and there’s no such thing as mickaleens!”
“I want you home long before dark,” Kate said, wishing John were back. “An hour before dark, to say the rosary.”
The boys took every shortcut they could find to the swimming hole below Whelan’s falls, running hard as if it were the first swim of the summer. They zigzagged across the newly cut meadows and jumped over every cock of hay in their path.
“Tommy, you told Mrs. Whelan you were going swimming,” said John Fox. “Sure, you never swims. You always hangs around the riverbank.”
“Well, I’m going in the falls today.” Tommy raced ahead to avoid him. Would he really go in the water? There were butterflies in his stomach. He hung back.
&
nbsp; “Do you have any money for the regatta?” Tommy asked Pat Hickey. Aunt Kate hadn’t mentioned money to him yet. He knew they were going to see Uncle John row, but he didn’t know anything else. He’d never been to the regatta before, but he knew there were good things to eat.
“Me mother said she’d give me five cents.” Pat was chewing on a piece of grass and slapping the nippers away from his head. “I’ll be buying some peppermint knobs as soon as I gets there.”
Martin Roche ran up behind Tommy and Pat and burst between them. “You got to watch the men trying to walk the greasy pole out into the pond. You’ll laugh till you cries.”
“Me and Aunt Kate are going out in the morning, to see Uncle John beat Torbay. He’s going to win the championship in the afternoon,” said Tommy.
“I heard Torbay rowed a good time in practice.” Dave Kinsella poked Tommy in the ribs.
Walter Carroll kicked tall weeds to the ground. “I don’t believe it. My father says Outer Cove will win in that new boat, the Red Peter.”
“It’s the Blue Peter. Torbay is rowing in the Red Cross.”
“There’ll be hundreds and hundreds of people at the regatta,” Walter said.
“Thousands and thousands, b’y. Sure, it’s a big holiday in St. John’s.” Tommy looked for a spot from which to jump.
“What if it rains and they can’t race?”
“Then they races on Thursday or Friday.”
“How come you knows everything about the regatta, Tommy?”
“Uncle John is always talking about it.”
They broke through the thick alder bushes and came out on the bank of the Big River. Soon their clothes and boots were lying in a heap beside it.
Tommy looked down at the swirling pool. His heart raced like the river. He wanted to jump, but his feet were rooted to the spot.
“You’re only pretending to jump, Tommy. You’re not going to do it.”
“Quiet, Foxy. Leave him alone,” Walter said.
“Don’t listen to Foxy,” said Pat Hickey. “He wasn’t so brave the first time he jumped in, either. We’ll jump in if you needs help, Tommy, b’y.”
