by Paul Almond
“We got no small pox on the Gaspé, for sure. But we have diphtheria. My uncle died of it.”
“No vaccination for that. Nor cholera, which is taking a terrible toll.”
“My father’s mother died of it coming over the Atlantic. Lots of that over in Europe and England, I heard. They bring the plague here in ships, but make them stop outside Quebec.”
“Yes, Grosse Ile.” Daniel slapped the reins as they turned onto a more beaten path. “When I was leaving England, they were coming to the conclusion that it was the squalor caused those epidemics. With all the space we have here, we avoid that. You have no idea of the overcrowding in London, and in the North. All that dirt and filth — the report claimed that was the cause. It’s probably what got those Poor Laws passed, not so long ago.”
Jim found himself enjoying the ride in spite of his companion’s frosty attitude. “Pretty rough time if you’re poor in the Old Country. Poppa told me when he came down from the North one time, people were hanged for stealing a loaf of bread. I could never believe that myself.”
“Well, perhaps not for a loaf of bread, but for five loaves, or anything like that. But they stopped most of the hangings thirty years ago, and fifteen years ago they stopped it all, except of course murderers and those with treason on their mind.”
So times were improving, Jim thought. “Did you work among the poor?”
“My intention precisely. I wanted to end up at St. Thomas’s Hospital as a general practitioner. But then, I found out that a patient had to have money to get admitted!” Daniel snorted. “And you have to be adjudged curable, and what is more, you must prove that you have enough money to buy your own burial shroud!”
Jim whistled.
“Yes, that did it for me. I didn’t go across and do all that studying just to look after the rich.”
Perhaps he was not such a bad sort after all, Jim was beginning to think. “So now, you look after the likes of us on the Gaspé Coast? You still get paid, though?”
“Well, they bring me eggs, they bring me flour, whatever they can, so I don’t do too badly. In England, they brought in laws stopping the Truck System, you know, trading jobs for goods and so on, back around thirty-one, I believe. Certainly wouldn’t work here, that law.”
Jim chortled. “That’s for sure.”
“Probably better it doesn’t, for a while,” Daniel murmured.
I can write all this to my father, Jim said to himself: medical journals, ether, so many changes. When I get to Montreal, that will be my first letter. He thanked heaven that he’d applied himself when his father had schooled him and his brother Joseph; his sisters could neither read nor write.
They reached the hospital and after what he’d heard about St. Thomas’s in London, the plain square wooden building in Restigouche seemed to Jim a bit of an anticlimax. But Daniel was anxious to get to his patient and come back home before dark, so he did no more than show Jim one of the wards. Jim was happy just to glance in at the door, afraid of those epidemics he’d heard about. The hospital could be full of disease after all. Better get back to the sleigh ride he loved so much.
* * *
The next morning Jim would be setting off, all alone. So why not throw himself into enjoying this last evening with his hosts? “That was one of the best suppers I’ve ever been served!” he said as he finished his bread pudding. “You’re a fine hostess, Helen.”
Across the table through the candlelight, Helen smiled. “I’ve had a lot of training, I suppose. As you might imagine, being close to the Kempt Road, we do get a goodly number of visitors.”
“You should open a hostel.”
“Oh no,” Robert replied quickly. “This way we can refuse whom we like, and invite in only those we feel partial to.”
Jim accepted the compliment with grace. “Well, our family in Shegouac will always be in your debt.”
“You do seem to have a distinguished father.” Elizabeth finished her pudding, and sat back.
Jim looked up quickly. It was the first word she had spoken, though she had been watching him closely all through their supper. Not a greatly pretty woman, but striking, with broad almost manly features. She apparently helped Robert with the barn work, leaving the cooking and quilting bees to her unmarried older sister, now nearing forty.
“And I’m very grateful to your brother, sir, for taking me on his sleigh. I did learn much about England, and saw a little more of your countryside up here. Fine way to travel. Nothing as pretty as a horse in harness. I hope one day, the Alfords will bring the first to Shegouac.”
Elizabeth wiped her lips with her napkin, put it down, and looked boldly across the table. “We have two fine horses and one young filly in the stable. Would you like to see them? I’ve got to go out and do the chores.”
“I surely would, ma’am,” Jim said. “Nothing’d suit me better than giving you a hand. Least I can do, after this fine day, with all the food and lodging. If only there was something more I could offer.”
“Not at all,” Robert replied, “you’ve given us quite enough. We get little news from down your way. Most travellers come through from Halifax, or Fredericton, and perhaps from our own New Brunswick coast.”
Once out in the stable hanging their heavy outer coats on pegs, Jim was mildly shocked to see Elizabeth wearing a pair of rough trousers. She noticed his look. “I can hardly muck out a stable with a skirt on, now could I?”
That said it all for Jim. She stood squarely, taking in his tall form. Could it be that she had eyes for him? After all, they were alone now, with little chance of being interrupted.
She must have read his mind, because she said roughly, “First we’ll need some straw down from the loft for the cows and a bit of hay for the horses. If you climb this ladder and fork it down, I’ll feed them.”
Up in the loft forking down hay came so naturally, he realized how much he would miss the farm when he got to the city. But he put away any doubts; now was not the time: he had a long trek ahead. So he enjoyed helping and in short order they had the animals fed.
Elizabeth threw some grain in to the chickens and got dishes of oats for the two horses and filly, which Jim duly admired. She spent some time giving one a bit of a brush down, and encouraging him to start on the other. He enjoyed it. “Guess I’d better learn how to do all this if we’re gonna have a horse one day. We sure don’t brush down Keen and Smudge.”
“Keen and Smudge?” Elizabeth laughed. “What delightful names for oxen! You know, you’re one of the first travellers recently who knows what he’s doing in a barn. I like that.” She came out of the stall to put the brushes and curry combs on a ledge. Then she faced him.
Did he see desire in her look? Well, give it a try. He grabbed her, just the way he did with other girls.
She froze. Then she smiled. “I forgot. You’re from way down the Coast. And probably, a bit new to all this, from what I’ve heard.”
Jim didn’t know what to make of that. He dropped his hands to his sides. She turned, took his strong fingers in her no less leathery hand, and led him to an empty pen at the back of the stable. “We butchered our yearling bull a month ago. This is empty.” She opened the large, wooden plank door, and ushered him in.
“Now,” she said, “is there any reason to be in a hurry?”
“I’m going nowhere tonight.” But then Jim added, believing it was incumbent upon him, “In the morning I have to be off for Montreal, ma’am.”
She looked at him boldly. “Ma’am? Don’t you think, in these circumstances, you should call me Lizzie? Or even, my love?”
This was certainly a new turn of events. Jim couldn’t for the life of him say “my love,” but he certainly could blurt out, “Lizzie, I think you’re some attractive woman.”
“Good,” was all she said. She took a step forward and then pressed herself firmly against him. He grabbed her again. “Uh-uh!” Firmly, she placed his hands at his sides. “I thought we weren’t in a hurry.”
Maybe no
t, but he felt such a rush of blood he found it hard to restrain himself.
“Are you cold?” she asked
Jim shook his head. Stables were even warmer than the house, with all the heat of the animals and the low roof insulated by its loft of straw.
“Good.” She took off her own garment. He doffed his heavy shirt, and stood, uncertain, in his woollen underwear.
She pulled him down in front of her. Then she admired his body with big, appraising eyes. Oddly, he felt no shame, only curiosity.
She eyed him. “Have you done this before?”
Jim shook his head.
She smiled, nodded to herself. “Not often I get, well, one so young, and so alone.” She fondled him. “Something very special, you know, your first time. You’re likely not to forget this.”
“I guess I won’t, ma’am — I mean, my love.” It sure sounded funny, but right now, he’d say anything to please.
She undid her own clothes and underthings. With wonder, Jim watched her white body as she lay back in the shadow of the wooden partition between the stalls. She reached up to his face, fondled his cheeks, and then brought his head slowly down, pressing it against her breasts. “You may kiss me — but gently.”
And kiss her he did. That, and much more.
Chapter Four
James Alford roamed the large kitchen, striding back and forth like an animal from the Chic-Choc Mountains with nowhere to go. East wall. West wall. Change. Diagonal, this corner, that corner, all the while eyed by a silent Catherine at her weaving, another silent Eleanor at her knitting, and Hannah, busy as always about the open fireplace, making their next meal.
He raged. For three days they had been shut in by the most unholy blizzard. He felt confined — confined by the high drifts of snow that reached over two of his windows, confined by the prison of his ever increasing years, which led to such unexpected surprises. Like yesterday.
Such a simple task. Go out, fork down straw for the cattle, a bit of hay for the two oxen, collect the eggs, though only three chickens were laying, bring out slops for the pigs, all tasks he usually did by rote. The old barn only lay a hundred and fifty feet away. Had that been badly planned? Young Jim had always gone on about needing a new barn. But then, who would ever dream up that great unbinding catastrophe that had befallen, one that had shaken him to his roots, that had forced him to face his increasing age. Whoever would dream that so close to the kitchen door, with the raging wind and bleaching snow, James Alford would ever come over dizzy, and fall down?
James, the young sailor, the Midshipman who had himself helped haul out the heavy cannon through their gun ports, the settler who had shot moose even as they thundered down upon him, who had faced the worst that Gaspé weather could ever invoke, would now, suddenly, within thirty feet of his own house, find himself thrown down, and anchored by the chain of just too many long years of hard work. Whenever had he not been able to bound up and stride on? Whenever had his muscular limbs failed to respond?
His brain, so alert always, so focussed, now spun out of control, dizzying, forcing him to thrash wildly as he tried to lift his addled frame up onto once-sturdy feet. How long must it be before this body would again respond, smart as a sailor’s salute, agile as that Midshipman who manoeuvred so well on the topmost spars of the Bellerophon? Maybe if he lay still and waited, the necessary strength would come back. He knew too well the white, looming extinction that overtook the unwary, once they succumbed to this icy numbness now threatening.
So don’t wait too long. You know what might happen. Imagine, a few feet from your own front door! What would Catherine and her mother do without him? What about young Hannah? Could the women feed the animals alone? Would the animals survive? Who would ever have thought such ridiculous questions might teem in his spinning mind?
James felt his will to rise evaporating, as snow fell on his black, huddled form. And after all, was it not comfortable here? Why struggle? Hannah could feed the cattle, she’d done it before. Instead, he’d let her continue the housework, make the big breakfast awaiting them all inside, while Eleanor knitted and Catherine loomed?
Maybe if I can just get my hands down onto the solid ground, I can lift my shoulders, James thought. But this seemed another world: no ground could be felt, only soft snow, liquid as the sea. To drown him. To sweep him under. No rising today, no heaving up on waves of power. Would they worry inside? But he lost that thought in another welter of images: son Jim leaving the house — how long ago? It seemed years. Or just yesterday? His baby daughter Elizabeth, dying at three years old, oh so many years ago. And how many others? Two grandchildren, also snatched away — well, was he not this minute on his way to see them again?
The images whirled round, the thoughts circled, but not one of them capable of lifting him from the deep drift and throwing him up against the door to call for safety.
The door. Yes, the door. And all that lay behind...
* * *
Someone was bathing his face in hot water, someone else was pulling off his clothes. He opened his eyes. Such concern on Catherine’s face. Tears. He wanted to comfort her. But no limbs responded.
“I told him not to go out alone!” Eleanor’s dry voice cut the murmurs of concern burbling around him. “I don’t know what possessed you, Hannah, but you did right with that hunch of yours, going out there after him!”
Hannah was far too busy caring for James to respond. And as his strength and sanity returned, James forced himself unsteadily to his feet. “I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’ll go right upstairs and lie down,” Catherine ordered.
“I will not.” James walked unsteadily over to the table and sat. “I’ll have a nice cup of tea and then some of that breakfast Hannah’s been making. Then, who knows,” he wavered, “I might just take your advice.”
And so, the episode had been closed.
And now, he was pacing the room. Was yesterday’s fall anything to do with his present rage? Of course. Everything. And now, the women had not let him go do his chores this morning. Hannah had done them, and apparently with ease. She’d make such a great wife for someone, and he had an inkling who that someone would be. Already the man was building his own house down the coast in east Shegouac, over by her siblings Mary Jane and Joseph. A fine worker, Ned Hayes, but so shy. James had noticed him around women. Never opened his mouth. Well, James would encourage his daughter Hannah to open hers, no doubt about that. She may not be the prettiest of daughters, with her brown hair so plain in a bun, her brown eyes rather small, but she was a thorough worker and would make a great wife and mother. So proud of her, and Jim — yes, Jim, oh dear! Back swooped the vultures of depression that he had fought ever since that departure. Yes indeed, was that also making him rage?
His farm, their farm, what would become of it now? Apart from Hannah, his daughters were happily married with their own farms, so no need of this. Of his two sons, Joseph had married, which left Jim as sole inheritor. And now, would his farm just give in to the relentless Gaspé growth, the bushes which crept in from the edges of the forest to take over fields, spring after spring?
Yes, James thought, that was it: his growing age, and Jim’s departure, what two challenges, what two catastrophes, could ever compare with these? And what could he do about them now?
* * *
Late that night, James thought he was awake. He saw great throngs of hooded spectres surrounding the house, throwing their insubstantial but massive shoulders against the wood frames, jostling the joists, heaving their shoulders at the walls with the strength of giant moose. Did they intend to drown the creaking house in acres of unfathomable snow, buried icebergs, wastes of ocean under depths of ice? Yes, if he could howl like a wolf, like a hundred wolves, howl he would.
This great gulf, between the onset of everlasting dark approaching so quickly and an immensity of light dazzling the house with its drifts and ice caverns, was this the divide that one day he must cross? Now, again, he heard th
e phantoms flap their ghoulish sheets against these upper windows, lacing the panes with harsh whips that seemed everywhere assaulting him. Oh to end all this — put off his uneasy flesh and take on a garment of light, to allow the blinding whiteness of snow outside to smother him in its downy cloak, pierce his brain with flashing shards to illuminate happy dreams at last.
With their monstrous clubs, the giant trolls of weather battered the icicles beneath the eaves and bludgeoned the walls with heartless abandon. But downtrodden though he might feel, stamped on by the heavy and unbearable tread of years, this headlong leap into an eternity was not to be any time soon. So, dream on: let this phantom wind prowl the house on padded feet and fling its gusts against the eaves. He’d lurch through the rooms, tread the worn boards in slippered feet, a gaunt form moving idly from room to room, down the stairs, finally to crouch by the open fire, upon which he threw more fuel. Let them sleep on upstairs. He’d huddle here awhile, and sip some warming soup, and think a spell.
* * *
Catherine didn’t hear James get up. She was off in the fields of childhood, playing tag with her brothers. And then, watching wide-eyed at the table the night the young Midshipman arrived from his Waste Land down the coast, so polite and straight with military bearing, his blue eyes and smooth cheeks and fair brown hair bleached by the sun; she had known at once that she would be his wife. That engagement to Billy Brotherton, well, that had just been to rile him up, so angered had she been by James’s failure to return as promised. And how she almost swooned that awful day when he had brought her the young Portuguese laddie, Benvenuto, whose mangled arm he had sawn off and then cauterized to save his life. What a husband he would make!
Now again, she rocked in her canoe on that trip down the Coast with Mariah in her arms to bring the baby to her new home. And then, such glorious lovemaking after, and even now, infrequent but still good. She wondered how her husband could still love this old withered body. But love it apparently he did, and her spirited core no less. She felt keenly, even more keenly than he did perhaps, this rage at his increasing incapacities. Worse for him, she thought, even though her back troubled her so that she could not sit long at the loom without getting up to stride around, tidy the room, dust the bowls, even empty the slops — anything to keep moving. Must be hard for a man to lose the muscular strength he once employed so happily clearing woods, ploughing lands, hauling yellow grain into the darkened barns. And now, as she caught a glimpse, in their one mirror with its own wrinkles, of her reflected face, she would even smile at how she had outwitted Fate, for she had a man who loved her, long after she would have thought herself desirable.
