Donovan's Station

by Robin McGrath

  Yes, it must have been Judith. She was as strong as a man from working on the docks, and she brought in her old hand-barrow to move him. We came down over the stairs, making the narrow turn, and the stiffness hadn’t set in for his legs were dangling down at the knees, tapping out a jig on the steps like a dancing doll, and his head lolled back and forth in a most comical way. We set some boards over two puncheon tubs Judith hauled in from the road, and I stripped him down. He hadn’t been shaved in weeks and I had a hard job taking the gingery whiskers off his cheeks without marking his face up.

  Poor Judith. I remember now, Mr. Donovan made inquiries after we were married, and said she’d been found face down in the harbour. She was into something a lot bigger than she guessed, I suppose.

  What was it Judith said about Paddy? Was it something rude about his manhood? I know I was shocked. I was pouring the water down over him, giving him a good scrub—he was in need of one, had the smell of rancid butter in his hair always—and Judith remarked on the fine condition of his privates. Oh, I was so taken aback, looked her right in the eye and then, some-thing dreadful… I don’t like to think about this. Judith said she didn’t blame me, but she gave me such a look, half sorrowful and half frightened.

  God Almighty, I think I understand now, it was the mercury. Judith had asked me when she went to get: the mercury if I needed the Rush’s Pills or something for treating the Louis Venen, and I said I’d seen the sores, that he needed it for the clap. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he might have had it, I just said it because I was angry at him. Judith got enough medicine for the two of us, for me and Paddy, but I didn’t take it because I hadn’t been with him since I hit Kate with the hat. When she saw him—saw his body—he was as clean as a newborn baby. She wouldn’t look me in the eye after that—stayed with me through the wake, then more or less disappeared.

  I shall never forgive myself for that, for hitting the poor little baby, and her blue with cold. I am glad Ned Roche reminded me, for I confessed it once, but the priest didn’t listen, called me a foolish, trivial woman. I wish the Bishop was here, that I could confess to him, for then I could die with a clean conscience. My longing to confess is so great, and his longing to forgive was always written on his face, so that I feel I have only to say the words and…

  September 4

  Mumma died this afternoon. As she struggled to sit up, Dermot came forward to help me, and when he lifted her in his arms, she said a most piteous voice “I should never have hit Kate with that hat.” He stroked her hair as if she were a child and said “Don’t worry, go to sleep.” Then she gave him the most sweet, beautiful smile and a few moments later she was gone. We will have the banns read after the funeral—we have waited long enough.

  Sept. 6, 1914

  Monsignor Emmet Murphy

  All Hallows, Dublin

  My Dear Emmet,

  Thank you for your letter of August 26th. It arrived in record time and was waiting for me when I got back to St. John’a last night. You might wonder at my being absent from town at such a critical time, given the news from Europe, but I am cloaer to the pulae of government when in Topsail than you might think. For many decades now, Topaail has been more of a summer resort than a fishing and farming community. I am invited to say grace frequently, with our own leading families, of course, but also with those of the separated brethren, and three nights ago I even broke bread with a Hebrew shopkeeper who carved a boiled ham with surprising skill. One must extend one’s influence whenever the occasion to do so arises. What might be frowned upon in town is tolerated, even encouraged, out here in the country where I have access to some of our most important politicians and merchants. Unlike at least one of my predecessors, when I “sup with the devil” I bring a very long spoon to table.

  Regarding my request that you search the record for any referencea to a Keziah Osborne, alao called Mrs. Patrick Aylward and Mrs. Patrick Donovan, I am relieved to hear that your search has proved fruitless. One hears rumors and it is as well to proceed with caution. As her confessor it would have been my duty to raise the matter had I any real suspicion of impropriety. The female in question had suffered a paralytic stroke, which ultimately proved to be fatal. She was of little importance to anyone, but I thank you for your discretion in this matter.

  With great respect and many thanks for your kindneaa, I beg to subscribe myaelf.

  Your brother in Chriat,

  Edward Patrick Roche

  Vicar General

  Archdiocese of St. John’s