May told me that our school is going to reopen in the fall.
“But how can it?” I asked her, since all the buildings around the Cathedral are gone.
May knew everything because the school board meets at Avalon Cottage and Miss Cowling often comes to discuss details. “There’s an old schoolhouse beside St. Thomas’s Church. We are renting the building,” May said. “They have even ordered new desks for us. It will be humble, but at least we will all be together again.” She added that the school board was worried that the number of girls returning would be low, as some are being sent away to boarding schools.
I had to ask who, though the very idea filled me with dread. She said the Seawards had been to visit Ethel Pye and learned she is going to a school for young ladies in New Brunswick. Her father is a widower and he told them it will be a comfort to him to know she will have a solid roof over her head this winter, and easier for him to board as a bachelor. She’s leaving soon.
Then May said, in a meaningful kind of way, “I’m afraid she may not be the only one. You will join us, Triffie, won’t you?”
I told May how Papa feels about settling into our new neighbourhood. I didn’t have to remind her of the parish school just by the Long Bridge. The truth is, I’m not sure where I’ll be going to school in September, and that was all I could say.
May did not look happy, but she’s the kind of girl who doesn’t fuss. I used to be the kind who did, but I seem to be changing. When I look back now to the day when Alfie left, I can hardly believe the way I behaved.
But I didn’t like to see May sad. I wasn’t very happy myself, so I changed the subject, asking what she supposed would be in those boxes from London.
May told me she hoped there might be an everyday dress for her and I replied that this was exactly what I longed for as well, so I would not have to sit quietly in my rose satin every week while Nettie did the laundry.
“I’ll wear it to the Regatta next week,” I said, “but otherwise it’s quite useless outside of Sundays.”
“But, Triffie, there is no Regatta this year,” May replied.
No Regatta! I couldn’t believe it. They might as well cancel Christmas. “How can they take away the Regatta?” I thought of all the things we would miss. The boat races, the swings and tea tents. “Remember last year when Mr. Sainthill insisted he would walk the greasy pole out over the water, even though he was wearing a good suit?” We giggled as we pictured him sitting there soaking wet.
May told me Mr. Sainthill had lived at Avalon Cottage with them for a few weeks after the Clergy House burnt down, and he had been sent to Bonavista for the summer. We talked about him for a while, how funny he was with his proper English ways, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Regatta, and I had to ask May why it had been cancelled.
She reminded me of the people who are still living in tents on the field by the pond, then she put her hand on my arm. “Don’t be sad, Triffie. I’m sure it will be back again next year.”
By the time May left, I felt quite downcast. But I am determined now to make less trouble for everyone. When school starts back again, I’ll do whatever Mama and Papa think best. The Regatta will be back next year and it wouldn’t have been fun without Alfie anyway.
August 1892
Wednesday, August 3rd, South Side Warehouse
I found a boy under the wharf! Sarah said it’s just like finding a troll under a bridge, but Ned is nothing like a troll. I will tell the story properly.
I woke up early this morning, knowing there was a reason why, but I could not find it. Suddenly, I remembered — today should have been Regatta Day. I knew that if I stayed in bed I would just think on past Regatta Days until I’d made myself right glum, so I thought I might creep out and draw some water from the Critches’ well — to make myself useful, as Nettie would say. I was rather proud to have such a practical thought, and even more pleased when I managed to dress, find the empty pail and get outside without disturbing anyone. I hoped to hear some praise at breakfast that might lift my spirits.
The night before, Papa had told us about the trouble over sheds that people are building at the public coves. Municipal Council approves, but the Premier said they are a disgrace and must be torn down at once. Now everyone is fighting about it. Papa says that people only want to live close to where they are working. He is also worried because more merchants are opening shops in sheds on Water Street. “Why would anyone pay for a cab to come over here when they can shop on Water Street?” he asked Mama. She wondered if Papa could make some kind of arrangement with Mr. Morrissey, but he said that would be too expensive to be practical.
Remembering all this, I took my pail to the wharf to see those new sheds across the water before I went to the well. It was windy enough that Regatta Day might have been postponed, and the harbour had a bit of a swell. As I stood there, I heard a knocking noise, as if something large was hitting the wooden pilings under me. Looking down at moving water makes me dizzy, so I lay flat on my tummy. Imagine my surprise when I saw a boy in a boat! It was a neat little boat, the kind we call a rodney. The boy was asleep, or so I thought, but when I looked at him, he opened his eyes. It was funny to watch his face go from calm and sleepy to terrified in just a few seconds. I don’t believe I’ve ever frightened anyone in my life and I wanted to tell him not to worry, but he spoke before I could.
“I’ll be out of here the once, my maid,” he said. “I never meant to trespass. I just needed a place to tie up for the night is all.”
He spoke so nicely, I was sorry I’d frightened him. “Stay here as long as you please. I’m sure no one will mind.” Then I wondered how anyone could live in a rowboat. “Are you hungry?” I asked.
He pointed to a little boarded-up compartment in the middle of his boat and I could hear the pride in his voice as he told me he’d stowed some bread from last night’s supper midship to see him through the day. Then he noticed the pail and added, “I allow I could use a drink of water.”
When he climbed up a little ladder at the side of the wharf, I found he stood head and shoulders above me. I guessed he was a little older than Sarah, about sixteen (which proved to be true). He wore a cloth cap with a peak. His arms and legs had grown a good few inches past the cuffs of his pants and jacket, which were frayed, but the way he took the pail for me made me think his manners better than many’s a boy dressed in fine clothes.
I took him across the road to the Critches’ garden, but he would not pass through the gate. “We’ll be in for trouble if we trespasses,” he said.
Sometimes in the street, I’ve passed a dog that has a cruel master. You can tell these dogs by the mixture of fear and pleading in their eyes. I’m not especially fond of dogs, but that look tears at my heart. I saw that same look in this boy’s eyes. I suddenly felt angry at whoever had put that whipped-dog look on his face, and my anger made me bold.
“We will not! Follow me.” But he wouldn’t. Luckily, Mr. Critch was enjoying his pipe in the garden. “Good morning, Mr. Critch,” I called. “May we use your well?”
He laughed. “Triffie, maid, what are you on about? You knows you’re welcome to our well.”
When the boy heard this, he finally followed me. He drew the pail of water and drank by dipping his hand in, over and over again. Then he splashed it over his hair and face. I’d never seen anyone enjoy water so much. When he finished, he watered the Sweet William and Dame’s Rocket growing near the well and drew a fresh pail for me. He looked ready to leave, but I was too curious to let him. I suggested we sit on the bench while he dried off. Then I introduced myself and asked him who he was.
“I’m Ned Shamler, Miss,” he said, doffing his cap.
I asked him why he was sleeping in a rodney.
“That,” he replied, “is a long story.”
The sun had not yet crested the South Side hills behind us, and I knew it was still early. “No one needs this water yet,” I told him. “I have time to listen.”
I wasn’t
expecting a happy story, and it was not. Ned’s parents both died of diphtheria when he was ten. His father had been a carpenter, but he’d broken his arm and it wasn’t set properly, so after that, he could never work much. When his parents died, Ned was only able to keep out of the orphanage by begging his grandfather to take him in. “Grandfather took pity on me,” he said. “But that was the first and only time.” Ned had been going to the Springdale Street Mission School, which is free. He’d liked school, he told me, but that was the end of schooling for him. “Grandfather said it was time to make a man of me, and he had no objection to the money I earned him neither.”
Ned went to work in the sail loft at the corner of Prescott and Duckworth Streets. Two years later, when his grandfather died, the owner let Ned sleep in the sail loft, but he docked a shilling off Ned’s pay each week for that, though Ned couldn’t say why. “The sails were there to sleep on and he never heated the place.” Ned sighed. “The sail loft’s gone now, though. Up in smoke, like the rest of the city.” He told me that the rodney was the only thing he owned. His father had made it and Ned said he always managed to keep her on the water and get someone to help haul her out for the winter (calling the boat “her” as if it were his dearest friend). But then he stood up. “Your crowd will be after waking up about now. I’d best be on my way.”
When I asked where he would go, he only shrugged.
Just then Mrs. Critch came out to draw some water. “Triffie, my darling, my hens has been laying their insides out. The eggs won’t keep in this heat, and Nettie told me yesterday evening your stove’s all set to go at last. Let me give you half a dozen so she can make a proper breakfast.” Next thing I knew, she handed me a neat little basket.
I told Ned the eggs would never have come to us if I hadn’t sat to listen to his story, and asked him to share our breakfast, but it was a job of work to make him agree. I finally had to tell him I couldn’t carry the water and the eggs upstairs without his help.
By now everyone was up and dressed. I was wearing my everyday dress, with my pinafore over it, of course. It was one of my better everyday dresses, a pretty dark-blue cotton calico, but it’s very plain and a pinny is a pinny. When Ned saw Mama and Papa in their fine clothes, he almost bolted, but I was behind and propelled him forward with only the tiniest shove as I presented the basket of eggs. Mrs. Critch’s gift caused such celebration that Ned’s presence was forgotten until, finally, Mama raised an eyebrow at me. I introduced Ned, stressing that we would not have gotten the eggs if not for him.
Nettie told us Mrs. Critch would know how to pickle eggs just as well as any woman, and these were given to us out of pure kindness. Then she whisked away to make us breakfast and Sarah followed, saying she would bring tea as soon as the kettle boiled. (The stove had finally been installed on the second floor yesterday evening after much grunting and hauling on ropes. Mr. Matt joked that they almost stove in the wall with the stove.)
I held my breath to see what would happen next. Before the fire, I knew, Mama would have given Ned a penny and dismissed him with a smile. But the fire had changed even Mama.
She told Ned that Nettie would not rest last night until she’d baked some bread, adding, “You helped Triffie find us a breakfast fit for kings. Stay and share our meal.” But Mama was not entirely changed, because this was more of a command than an invitation, and Ned could not refuse, politely or otherwise. Some of us sat on our beds, some in barrel chairs. Mr. Matt joined us before the food appeared and quickly got Ned to talk about himself. Mama was shocked when Ned told them he’d been sleeping in his boat, but Papa was intrigued and he asked to see the boat after we’d finished breakfast. I could tell that Papa had a reason, but I had no clue what he was at.
The scrambled eggs were heavenly with fresh bread and butter. I never imagined food could taste so good. I could see Ned was puzzled by our fine china, so I leaned over and whispered, “These are our only dishes now. Mama saved them from the fire. The silver too.”
As we ate, Papa raised his tea cup. “I propose a toast. To the stove, which rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Now that Nettie can cook again, our warehouse is truly a home.”
“To the stove!” we cried, clinking our tea cups very, very carefully.
Ned stared as if we came from some strange country he could never have imagined, but he was smiling too.
Thursday, August 4th, South Side Warehouse
We are going to keep Ned! Papa looked at the boat and found it was sound. At once, he offered Ned a job with room and board. Sarah and I have been busy ever since, trying to make things comfortable for him at Mr. Matt’s end of the floor. When we open our store, Ned’s boat will ferry people across the harbour from the public cove at the bottom of Princes Street. Papa hopes customers will see a free boat ride as a treat. Some of Papa’s other men will share the task of rowing so Ned doesn’t wear himself out. There’s room for two at the oars.
Ned still has the dazed look of someone who awoke to discover his life was only a bad dream. Tomorrow he’ll row us across the harbour so we can visit Bannerman Park to see if we can find Miss Rosy and the others.
Friday, August 5th, South Side Warehouse
Today Mama is a heroine of the highest order. I think she even astonished herself. Soon I will tell the whole story, but for now I am writing quickly because Sarah and I must help Ned arrange a new bedroom with the crates he brought up through the receiving doors with the ropes and pulleys. Ned calls the doors “loopholes,” and they are carefully barred with stout wooden boards when not in use, as they open onto thin air and it would be easy to fall from one. Papa and Mr. Matt made a bad job of it when they hoisted the stove to the second floor, but Ned learned to use the ropes and pulleys when he worked at the sail loft, and he’s so clever, he can work all by himself.
After we arrange the room, Sarah and I are going outside to wait for Mr. Morrissey’s cab to bring our dear shopgirls to us! We’re so thrilled!
Details tomorrow, I promise!
Saturday, August 6th, South Side Warehouse
Finally we got a letter from Alfie yesterday, but it was as short as a telegram! Everything nice here. Having fun. Your loving son, Alfred Winsor.
Mrs. Parrott added a note to say that Alfie is a dear boy, that he fits right in and they have been taking good care of him. It was most unsatisfactory, and it made me miss Alfie all the more. Sarah and I will hardly know where to start when we write our next letter. So much has happened since Ned arrived! But I want to tell the story properly here and I began in the middle yesterday, so I’ll go back now.
Yesterday afternoon Ned rowed us across the harbour so we could finally visit Bannerman Park. I mostly avoid looking at the north side now, but it loomed large in the boat. The fire stopped at the Bowring Brothers premises, which was partly burnt. I could see the scorch marks above one window on the eastern side, but from there west, the wharves and buildings along the waterfront are unchanged, even in places where the buildings behind, on Duckworth Street and the higher levels, were burnt to the ground. If I closed my left eye and looked to the right, the eastern side of the waterfront was all destruction. But, if I closed my right eye and looked left, the harbour looked as it always had.
At the public coves, men were busy building the very sheds the Government wants to tear down. We landed at the Fish Market at Clift’s Cove, a wharf that wasn’t as badly damaged as many. From there we walked through the heart of the destruction, confronting it at close hand for the first time.
The short street that leads from Clift’s Cove to Water Street used to face the Market House, where we found men preparing to pull down remaining walls with ropes. Papa says, if the ropes are long enough to keep the men clear of the falling brick, this is not as dangerous as blasting powder. Soon after the fire, when the crew of the Emerald were blasting down the walls of the Athenaeum, some bricks flew through a window of the Union Bank next door and broken glass cut the manager where he sat in his parlour above the bank. It was one of t
he few buildings to survive the fire and it must have been a great shock for Mr. Goldie to be cut by flying glass in his own home.
As we walked through the ruined city, walls of empty shells rose around us like ghosts of the buildings they once were. “Imagine these streets at night with no street lamps,” Sarah said with a shudder.
Mama led us straight up Cathedral Street. It was the most direct route out of the destruction, but it took us right past buildings that had been most dear to us.
The Cathedral stands roofless now and open to the sky, across from the remains of the well-built houses of Scotland Row. Only the stone wall and flagpole remain to show where Ashton Cottage stood on the other side of the street. Then we passed the site of our poor school, now just a few chimney towers, and climbed Garrison Hill, past pretty St. Patrick’s Hall, which is also gutted. At Military Road the Roman Catholic Cathedral stood untouched and, for the first time, we saw green, living trees!
We all breathed easier with those charred ruins behind us. Just before the park, we came to Rawlins Cross, where Mr. Rawlins’ Grocery Store stood unchanged. On a whim, Mama took us in. “What do you suppose we might take to the park as a treat for the shopgirls we find there?” she asked, and we settled on some bottled lemonade which was chilling in a tub of ice water. As we left, Mr. Rawlins expressed his condolences for our losses.
Bannerman Park was transformed beyond recognition. The grass has been trampled away, leaving a field of beaten earth. Low, mean-looking sheds have sprung up in rows that face one another, with posts and a clothesline running between. In the distance, we saw larger makeshift buildings that must be the kitchens and hospital. Here, as everywhere else in the city, hammers pounded constantly in the background. It was like entering another world.
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