by Paul Almond
“I will.” Hannah looked radiant, but dropped her eyes. She never liked being the centre of attention.
Keep only unto him, yes, what a heaven-sent thought! Bringing such opposites together in one flesh, a man such as he, with all his frailties and now his aging body, and that glorious wife next to whom he lay every night in darkness, thanking the Lord for his luck. Nothing like the touch of a woman’s fingers on your cheek, the feel of her lips against your ear, those fluttering words she had whispered when they were first married. The long road of their life had been bumpy, but such glorious vistas along the way — a journey blessed by heaven, no doubt.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
Proudly James passed Hannah forward, so that Edward took Hannah by her right hand, as he followed the Rev. Milne in saying...
“I Edward, take thee Hannah, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward...” James found his eyes filling with tears. Such power those words had, even when haltingly repeated by Ned: “...for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish...” James blinked, straightened up in his black suit, coughed gruffly, adjusted his tie. “I Hannah, take thee Edward, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold...” Just what Catherine had said forty years ago. How those words moved him, but never more than now. Was it because he’d not hear them again? “To love, cherish and to obey till death us do part...” Hannah looked with love at Ned.
James’s shoulders shook, and tears spilled out, running down into his beard. With his handkerchief he tried to wipe them away, lost, even broken. What had come over him? So lonely, all this. But the phrase: “Till death us do part...” Yes, foretold in the oath Catherine and he had sworn. Would they not soon part, perhaps not a parting, more like an interlude, before meeting once again in the great Hereafter? But then, who could tell what promises would be kept, for who indeed knew whether God did in fact care? Would the two of them really meet again? The leaden weight of that phrase hung upon him like a dark prophetic anchor, dragging him down.
Catherine motioned for her son Joseph to bring a chair for her husband. He sat, head in hands — how awful to cry at your daughter’s wedding.
* * *
But as it turned out, his being overcome had been highly regarded by the multitude, who had eaten their fill and indeed drunk a goodly amount of beer. Then afterwards, the group had moseyed over to the barn where old Xavier, whom James had bargained for down in Port Daniel, was playing the fiddle, with Exoré, the best foot-beater on the Coast, sitting beside him, beating away to his heart’s content.
On the walk over to the threshing floor, Catherine had been solicitous. But altogether, James felt in the best of spirits, now that his anxiety, despair, and yes, joyfulness, had been released in a bucket of tears. Well, he was old, they should excuse him. And excuse him they had, as it appeared.
On the way over, Hannah ran up, “Poppa, you’re not sad I’m leaving?”
“Oh no, my love. I’m the happiest father in Creation. Those were tears of happiness. I’m sorry if I —”
“No Poppa, I was so pleased. Everyone was watching you instead o’ me. So I got relaxed, and enjoyed myself.” She gave a happy laugh. “And you know, I have to have my first dance with you.”
Later with the party in full swing and an old-fashioned jig playing, Catherine motioned up the ladder. “James, better climb into that mow!”
“I just checked it.”
“These youngsters,” Catherine said, “they take every opportunity. Look what happened to Ellen at our last wedding.”
“That was at no wedding, Catherine. Billy got her in the back of a sleigh! Remember that week? The pile of sleigh rides? That’s when.”
“I don’t care whether it was a sleigh ride or a wedding, I don’t want any families blaming us for another forced wedding.”
In his heart of hearts, James blessed Ellen. She was a plain girl. Billy Robertson, from Cascapédia, well, he was the handsomest fella around. She’d been under his spell for a while, even though only eighteen. So if that’s the way to nab the handsomest man on the Coast, good for her! Of course, he’d never dare say that to Catherine. The child was born five months later.
Now it was well known all over that, although a newborn usually took nine months to make, the first one, well, God often formed that one a lot faster.
Then he turned to Catherine. “Time for the latest joke?”
Catherine nodded.
“All right, you know Mr. Milne, he came to visit sick old Mrs. Hottot. He asked her, my dear, have you ever been bedridden before?”
Catherine looked worried. “Is she sick again?”
“No, I think she’s all right. But you know what she replied?”
“No. What?”
“Bedridden? Hundreds of times. And twice in a buggy!” With that, James headed for the ladder, leaving Catherine convulsed in laughter but doing her best to hide it.
He climbed over the broad beam to find the mow in complete darkness. Now what?
James coughed. “Now I’ve been sent up here to say, any young girl better leave right now.” James spoke loud enough to be heard by the parents below. “There’s a ladder down the other side and you can come back through the stable. So take your time, but I’ll be back here with a lantern in five minutes, and any girl I find, I’ll be telling her parents!”
That should do it, he thought, praising the Lord for putting those words in his mouth at the last minute; he’d been in a panic about what to say.
He took his time coming down the ladder with a good few piggins of beer inside him. Fellas had brought a keg of rum from Carlisle, and a bunch of boys kept going into the stable and emerging, decidedly happy, if not cross-eyed. Thank heaven this was the last daughter. He sat down beside Catherine.
The fiddler struck up a tune. The couples started to form for a square dance. Catherine took his hand. “James, not many more times we’ll dance together. Can you take me onto the dance floor?”
Imagine! This packed earth referred to as a dance floor. He rose and, with Old World courtesy, bowed. He placed his ever-present big floppy hat on a low beam and they began to dance, manoeuvring among the many young girls flushed with exertion, sparkling eyes smiling at James as the host, even batting them in a provocative manner. Was he still attractive? He doubted it, but sure appreciated the fact. He and Catherine bobbed and wove in and out under the caller’s orders, and whirled each other round.
Oh yes, he felt just like after the birth of Mary Jane. They had gone to a grand wedding up in New Carlisle, with dancing and music. He saw his wife again with her blonde curls poking out under the bonnet, cheeks flushed, full lips grown somewhat thin of late, but looking still delicious. Youthful sparks filled her too: she laughed and frolicked and flirted with the young men as they sped around. On the next exchange, Jim was her partner and whirled his mother around while James spun his beloved Ann, who had done so much to help his school get started. Such a pretty thing, slight of frame, brown eyes, still serious even during the dance, although she did flash her father a warm smile as they parted for the next circuit.
This reel ended and he and Catherine went to sit before they wore themselves out. A young fellow, bit of an upstart, came up and said, “Mr. Alford, sir, you cut a fine figure. Tell me, will every young fella have to go to that there school of yours?”
James nodded. “Don’t you want to go to the school, Will?”
“Depends if ya got a pretty teacher or not. I heard we was gettin’ someone from away.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get all the reading and writing and arithmetic you need. Now run along.”
After the next reel, James saw Jim head toward him, sweating, looking unusually pleased in his one good suit. He bent down. “Poppa, everyone’s been telling me, this weddin’s the best yet.”
“Maybe you’ll find yourself a wife!”
“You never know...”
“But now I reckon it’s time for you t
o climb that ladder with a lantern, and see what’s going on.”
“Aw Poppa, you’re not going to give me that job? What if I find two or three girls?”
“Shoo ’em out like chickens. Or come down and tell me, and I’ll go straight to their parents.” Jim winced. “Go ahead now. And good luck.”
Yes, all in all, a good party. Now the next milestone: get Jim married. And then, help him construct a fine barn to last the rest of his and his children’s lives.
Chapter Nineteen: Summer 1856
“Well now, byes, you really want three threshing floors?” Charles Mauger asked, pronouncing it “thrashing,” as did everyone here.
James looked askance at his son. “No no, two is all we need. Two mows, one at each end, loft in the middle, two threshing floors in between, is fine.”
“Poppa,” Jim said, “that’s not what I had in mind...”
James could see from his son’s remark Jim had been holding himself in and might blow up at any minute. Well, better get the design of the barn right.
On the one hand, he had a grudging admiration for the boy: his ideas were so grand. I mean, why the biggest barn on the Gaspé? They did need a larger one, and the present heap was not worthy of the “Old Homestead.” But would it not be too large to finish? “You’ll never get it done.”
“We will, Poppa, never you mind, now.”
James could see Charles eyeing the both of them.
Jim went on quickly, “And each threshing floor long enough to take a team of oxen, with hay cart behind.”
Well, James thought, yes, you should be able to drive right in, and pitch the hay off the load into the mow. Good idea, in fact. He’d not thought of that.
“Well sir, we make her two dozen feet,” said Charles. The Maugers came from Jersey so they spoke both English and French. Charles had settled in Shegouac where everyone was English, but his was still not perfect.
“And alongside of the three threshing floors, we want three hay mows, sure, but at the end nearest the house, we want a loft only, you see Poppa, and under that, we’ll put a woodshed for Momma to open this side nearest the house.”
“What rubbish is that now?” James asked tartly. “What’s wrong with the back kitchen. We always used that. Your momma —”
“My momma hates not having enough space to take off our outer clothes in winter when we stack all that dry wood in there. She’s asked me over and over!” A vein or two bulged on his son’s neck.
“All right, all right, I agree. But the barn is just getting too, too big!”
“She gonna be one real big barn,” Charles agreed and shook his head.
“No point in building it if it’s not big enough,” Jim almost shouted. “Why go to all the trouble? I’m the one in charge.” He stopped himself. “Well, I mean you will be, Charles, but I’m cutting all the wood next winter.” He turned to his father. “I’ve got Joey to help, and we can get more, if there’s any money after buying that churn...” he ended, rather scathingly.
“Money, we’ve got money,” James snapped. “But what about the wood? You’ll never cut enough beams in one winter.”
“So I’ll do it over two winters.”
“Gonna take a pile of lumber,” Charles threw in cautiously. James could see he didn’t want to offend either of them, but was cautious as any carpenter should be.
“Poppa,” Jim blurted, “didn’t me and Joe cut all those beams for the new school foundations? We only had a couple of fellas from up Saint Godfrey helping, fine workers, okay, but I know what cutting wood is.”
“This will be ten times that schoolhouse,” James roared in spite of himself, and then looked down, feeling somewhat sheepish.
Charles nodded. “For sure, oh yes yes yes. Lots of good strong beams. Maybe even eighteen inches square.”
“Well, there are still three stands of good cedar back by the Second,” Jim argued. “No trouble to float them down, if that brook floods again like this year.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Jim shrugged.
James noticed his son was almost beginning to give up. “Well, far as getting help goes,” he admitted, “we do have something put away. Probably do more good in others’ pockets. If ya can get them fellas down Gascons way, they’re real good lumberjacks. Maybe we could find some extra pound notes.”
“Or dollars, they’re comin’ in now,” Charles added. “Canadian dollars. Like in America.”
Jim turned to Charles. “My question is, Mr. Major, how long you want those beams, and how many?”
Charles grinned and sat down. He picked up a board, and started to jot figures with his keel, the black chalk used by lumberjacks to mark logs. Jim and his father waited patiently.
Charles looked up. “You know, much better to work with a pattern. You take thirty feet deep for the threshing floor, so the whole barn, that make her thirty foot wide.”
Jim nodded, thinking. “Go on.”
“Well by jeez, fifteen feet wide each threshing floor. Them mows, thirty feet, she make,” he paused, scribbled, “one hundred five feet long overall, by thirty feet wide. Longest barn around, for sure.”
“So, how many beams?” Jim asked.
“She’s comin, she’s comin. Sure and a big pile of thirty-one-foot beams, and another pile of beams maybe not so wide, as rafters for the roof.... I figure out more tonight, and tomorrow at church I give you measurements.” Although the Maugers were French, they were also Protestant.
James shook his head. His son had won. He’d gotten his big barn. Would he finish it? Would he himself live to see it finished?
* * *
“Well my dear, the poor woman didn’t want anyone to know she was pregnant. Now how do you hide that, I’d like to know?” snapped Eleanor Garrett.
Catherine shook her head. “Terrible thing, for sure.” She was spinning while her mother rocked and knitted, having the afternoon gossips she loved.
“So all right then, hide the fact you’re pregnant, perhaps give the baby away, but don’t for heaven’s sake throw the little mite to the pigs!” Eleanor stopped her needles clacking. “That killed it, you know Catherine.”
Catherine did know. The story had gone up and down the Coast in a flash, like all bad news. Her mother began knitting furiously again. Catherine now found it hard to concentrate: she was feeding the raw wool she had carded, twisting it between her fingers while turning the spinning wheel with one foot.
“Who’s ever heard of such a thing? Imagine! Where was the Good Lord?” Eleanor shook her head. “Little newborn, torn apart by pigs.”
“Mother, I’m as shocked as you are, so let’s not discuss it.” One thing she had kept to herself: it was rumoured Widow Carlson had conceived the child from her own father — another reason why, perhaps, the little dear was better off in heaven.
“I don’t blame you, my dear. I don’t blame you one bit. I mean, every time I think of that little baby, did the mother offer up a prayer as she threw it into the pig pen, I wonder?”
“Mother! Don’t think about it!” Catherine was sick at the thought.
“No, I shall put it right out of my mind. All they found, you know, was part of the head, and a little arm...”
“Mother! Isn’t it time for your nap?”
“Yes dear, I believe it is.” Her mother put her knitting down in her lap and turned to Catherine. “You know, dear, you’re looking tired.”
Mothers — why do they have such perceptive eyes? “I am, mother. Very tired these days. I don’t know what’s coming over me.”
“I know what’s coming over you, Catherine. It’s old age. You’re nearly seventy. And you’re looking after a houseful. You know my dear,” she paused, and took a breath, “I’ve done a lot of knitting in my time. I hate to say it, but sometimes, enough is enough. Perhaps we should both of us slow down?”
“How do you mean, Mother?”
Eleanor paused, then looking straight ahead pronounced loudly, “We should sell the sheep.�
��
Catherine glanced up. Her mother herself seemed shocked at her own words. “There, I’ve said it. You, you’ve made enough blankets. And the carding, I watched you yesterday. You’re plain worn out.”
Catherine nodded. “I was, Mother, I confess. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sell the sheep, that’s what. Tell James. If you don’t, I will.”
“Well, let me think about it. It could be time. We do need the money for Jim’s new barn.”
Breathless, Martha rushed in with a basket of eggs. “Look, Ol’ Momma, look what I brought yez. I almost got me a dozen.” She set them down. “One, two, four, five —”
“Now dear, what comes after two?” Her daughter Ann who lived up by Travers Lane was sending Martha over to help every afternoon. Nice gesture, though she was only seven.
“Two? Three!”
Catherine nodded. “Go on.”
“Three, four, five, six, seven...” she paused, “Ten?”
“No dear, you remembered yesterday. Aren’t you learning your numbers in school?”
“Yes, but we got no school in summer. I can’t remember numbers, but I like spelling. C-A-T, D-O-G, listen, M-O-T-H-E-R.”
Eleanor rose. “Well, I think I’ll go upstairs. Now you look after your grandmother, Martha, like a good little girl.” She walked to the corner staircase and before making her regal way up, she paused. “Well, one good thing — that dreadful war in the Crimea has ended. What a saint that Nightingale woman must be!”
“Yes, Mother, Reverend Milne had us say prayers for her last Sunday. Now go on up for your nap. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
Eleanor smiled, and disappeared, happy no doubt they would have another subject for their daily gossip tomorrow.
“I’m ready to wind this skein, Martha. You remember how we do that?”
