A Sea of Sorrows

by Norah McClintock

  July 28, 1847

  Nellie Johnson came and stood beside me this morning while I hung out the linens. She has a head full of golden curls and the little pink lips of a cherub. She clutched a doll under one arm and watched me, feet firmly planted, for a few minutes. “Is it true you believe in fairies?” she asked at last.

  I did not know what to say, so I asked her where she had heard such a thing.

  “From Peggy,” she said, meaning her sister, who is eleven and is like her mother in every way. “She says all Irish believe in fairies.”

  “Do you not believe in them?” I asked.

  She shook her head but, to my mind, seemed to have doubts on the matter.

  “Some people say that fairies are fallen angels,” I said. “Do you know about fallen angels?”

  Again she shook her head. Well, she is only seven and a Protestant to boot. I asked her if she would like to hear a fairy story while I worked. She looked up at me through thick brown lashes and nodded solemnly.

  I told her the story of Lusmore the humpback and how it came about that he encountered some fairies and won them over with his beautiful voice and respectful manner. The fairies rewarded him for his singing and his courtesy by removing the ugly hump from his back. Another humpback heard of Lusmore’s luck and asked him his secret.

  Nellie’s eyes were wide when she asked if Lusmore had told him about the fairies.

  “Indeed, he did,” I answered, “for he was a good and generous man.”

  But the second humpback was not like Lusmore. He interrupted the fairies when they sang their fairy songs and he was disrespectful enough to demand that they remove his hump as they had removed Lusmore’s. His rudeness was rewarded: Not only did the fairies refuse to remove his hump, but they added Lusmore’s to his back as well and he went away worse off than when he arrived.

  “And that is why when you see a fairy or even think that one is about, you must always be respectful,” I told her. “For fairies can be kind to those who are kind, but will punish those who are disrespectful or cruel.”

  She stared up at me for a very long time and then asked, “Are there fairies here?”

  I told her I did not know, and that was the truth of it. She must have worried that there were fairies about for she thanked me sweetly for the story — three times!

  July 30, 1847

  There are so many things to be cleaned in this house. There are dishes and pots and pans. There are cups and measures and spoons and beaters. There is cutlery. There are cloths and aprons and towels. There are tables and floors. There is the kitchen, the hall, porch, the stoop, the stairs. There are carpets. And all must be scrubbed or swept or polished until they sparkle.

  While I was in the scullery with the pots, I heard Peggy outside, telling Mrs. Coteau about a new dress Mrs. Johnson was having made that she said was the latest fashion in London and that was to be trimmed with lace and beadwork. I thought how sad it was that my ma, who was much prettier and much sweeter than Mrs. Johnson, never had so fine a dress. Then Peggy told Mrs. Coteau something she had heard her mother read to her father from the newspaper. It was about how immigrants — the Irish immigrants — at the fever sheds were selling the bread and oatmeal they were given and were using the coppers they got in exchange to buy liquor!

  She finished by saying that her mother says that this proves they brought their misery on themselves. I do not believe a word of what she says. I cannot. I cannot believe that any of the people who were on our ship would do such a thing — nor any other immigrant either. The newspaper sounds as if it is written by an Englishman!

  July 31, 1847

  Late this afternoon, while I was washing and scraping vegetables at the kitchen door, Peggy Johnson appeared, unnoticed by me until she demanded that I tell her a fairy story. She so startled me that I dropped the potato I was peeling and splashed water on the hem of her frock. She is tall for her age and ungainly, and has her mother’s manner, for she regarded me with annoyance and said that I was clumsy. I think she will grow up with superior airs just like her mother. Her commanding tone is more than I can bear in someone who is two whole years younger than I am. I think that is why I chose to tell her the story of the Beautiful Maiden and her Three Aunts.

  The mother of the beautiful maiden wanted so much for her daughter to marry the prince that she lied and told the king that her daughter could spin, weave and sew better than any maiden in the kingdom. The king promised that if the beautiful maiden spun a mound of flax into thread, made fabric from it and from that fashioned a shirt, the prince would marry her.

  “I know this story,” Peggy declared. “An old woman will do it for her and then the maiden must either guess the old woman’s name or surrender her first-born child.”

  So smug did she sound that I was pleased indeed to tell her that she was wrong. I continued with the story, and she listened raptly despite herself as I described one old woman who appeared to spin the flax into thread, a second who made cloth of it, and a third who made a shirt of the cloth. All each asked in return was to be invited to the wedding when the maiden married the prince.

  “But she did not invite them,” Peggy declared triumphantly. “And they punished her.”

  “She did invite them,” I said, pleased yet again to correct her. “And when the prince learned that the first one had such large and ugly feet because she spun so much, and the second was so fat because she sat so long at the loom weaving the thread into fabric, and the third had an ugly and bloodied nose from being stuck so often with a needle while she tried to thread it, he vowed that his bride would never have to spin or weave or sew.”

  Peggy stared at me for a moment. “I see,” she said, still in her haughty tone. “So the lesson in the story is that if you lie about what you can do, you will be rewarded. I am not surprised.” Then she added, “Mother says that Irish are lazy.”

  I was stung, but determined not to show it. Instead, I told her that I had heard the story from a woman who told it to her own daughter. That woman gave her daughter the following lesson: Unless you are beautiful like the maiden and have three fairy aunts, you cannot hope to be saved from hard work and how it wears on the body.

  Anger flashed in Peggy’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but then plainly thought better of it, for she turned and flounced away.

  After the evening meal, while I was elbow deep in soapy water, Mrs. Coteau told me that Mrs. Johnson wished to speak with me. I dried my hands and opened the kitchen door, and was surprised to find Mrs. Johnson standing right there in the hall.

  “I will thank you to keep your heathen fairy stories to yourself,” she said. “We do not abide such nonsense here. If I ever hear that you again speak to my Peggy as you did today, you will be dismissed immediately.”

  I was so stunned that I did not know what to say. Now I wish that I had found my tongue and told her exactly what I thought of her Peggy. But I did not. And perhaps it is as well, for if I am left alone in this world — as I fear now that I am in my little bed — I will have to depend on a good reference to find new employment.

  August 1847

  August 1, 1847

  The Irish seem to be the talk of Montreal, and few have anything good to say. Just today I was in the scullery, dreaming of the delicious cakes and cream that Mrs. Coteau had made for company and wondering if any of them would return to the kitchen, even half-eaten, so that I might try one, when I heard voices. The kitchen windows, small and set high in the foundation wall, were all open so that we might have some air.

  The voice was a man’s, and I would not have paid attention had he not mentioned “the Irish.” It was pitiable, he said, how they were heard to be starving in ditches. Then Mrs. Johnson spoke to declare that the Irish are lazy, adding that she had read in the newspaper an account of their sloth. She said that Irish children play in dung heaps and that the Irish are to be seen everywhere in the country with barely the clothes to cover their modesty, when moderate labour would easily proc
ure them what they need. She called us “a nation of beggars and improvident creatures.”

  The gentleman protested that the potato crop had been ruined for two years in a row and that people were starving not out of laziness but from lack of food.

  “They are lazy, ignorant creatures,” Mrs. Johnson replied, adding that she spoke from first-hand knowledge. It took a moment before I realized that she was speaking of me. She called me “an ignorant thing who had never seen a cookstove before I charitably took her in and whose eyes grow as large as dinner plates at the merest mention of food.”

  She thought me ignorant? Poor perhaps. But never ignorant. Not I. I can read and write and do sums, thanks to Grandda, who was a schoolteacher in England before he came to Ireland and married Ma’s ma, and thanks to Ma, who was not ignorant either. She loved her few books almost above all else. As for my da, how can you call someone ignorant when he is one of the finest carpenters in the county. Mrs. Johnson is the ignorant one for believing such lies!

  It was then that I heard the gentlemen mention the fever sheds. “They are overflowing,” he said. “The wretched souls who survived the ocean voyage are now dying in droves.” To which Mrs. Johnson replied, “Their landlords should be ashamed of themselves for shovelling their problem onto our shores to be cared for by our charity.”

  I knew for myself that the sheds were filled with many decent people who had never needed any charity until they were forced to watch their loved ones die of hunger.

  I despise Mrs. Johnson.

  August 2, 1847

  More cleaning. Mrs. Coteau set me to work emptying shelves of pots and pans, scrubbing each shelf, washing, drying and polishing each pot and pan, and putting everything back exactly as it was. Mrs. Coteau especially emphasized that last instruction. She says she does not like to waste her precious time searching for items that have been misplaced. But there are so many things in this kitchen — a hundredfold and more than were ever in our own home. I was terrified that I would make a mistake and so, as I emptied each shelf, I stacked its contents exactly as they had been in their normal resting places and ordered them so that the items in the top shelf were stacked at the head of the table, those in the middle shelves were stacked in the middle, and so on. It was an admirable plan, for when Mrs. Coteau examined my work at the end of the day, she did not scold me. She only harrumphed and directed me to a new task.

  August 3, 1847

  As soon as the breakfast pans were scrubbed I was set to work with Mrs. Coteau making sandwiches and slicing cakes. At the last minute I was called upstairs to assist Claire, who had been scolded for being overly slow in tidying the parlour and the front hall. Mrs. Johnson was to receive callers today. Everything had to be in perfect order.

  Claire then put on her cleanest uniform and prepared to answer the door. I was sent to put out plates of buttered bread, cake and a large bowl of trifle that Mrs. Coteau had made and that smelled so delicious that my mouth fairly watered. I also brought up the first pot of tea and the first pitcher of lemonade so that Mrs. Johnson could offer her guests refreshments.

  The house was fairly abuzz all afternoon with ladies coming and going. I was dispatched up and down the stairs to take up fresh cups, saucers, plates and spoons and to return back down the stairs with dirty ones, which Mrs. Coteau had me stack neatly on the sideboard. She would not let me begin to wash such fine china while she was too busy to supervise me.

  It was only after the evening meal, which Mr. Johnson took but Mrs. Johnson did not, that Mrs. Coteau told me to fill some bowls with warm water and set them on the big table in the kitchen. She sat in her rocking chair mending tea towels while she watched me wash one cup at a time, and then the same with the saucers and small plates. I dried each one carefully, with much urging to be careful with each piece. Mrs. Coteau herself set them on their shelves.

  August 5, 1847

  I am ashamed and glad both at the same time. I am not ashamed at being sent away, for I know I did nothing wrong. But I detest Mrs. Johnson and, as I left, wished her an eternity in the bad place, and for this I am ashamed. Da always said that there is enough wickedness in the world and, for this reason, we should leave evil thoughts to the evil and keep ourselves on the side of the angels.

  Yesterday, after the fire was properly banked and Mrs. Coteau well tucked in her small room behind the kitchen, I hunted in my usual hiding place for my little book. It wasn’t there! I looked again, thinking I must have misplaced it. It was not to be found.

  I did not sleep even a wink last night. Thoughts of my little book filled my head. This morning when I took Mrs. Coteau her tea, my third chore of the day after stoking the fire in the stove and boiling the kettle, I asked if she had seen anything of mine lying about.

  She gave me an odd look. “Anything of yours?” she said. “You had nothing when you came here but the clothes on your back, and those only out of charity.” She told me to get to my chores. I thought about my book all day and wondered what had become of it.

  After dinner when Mr. Johnson had gone to meet business acquaintances, Mrs. Coteau sent me to see Mrs. Johnson.

  The door to the library was closed. I knocked and Mrs. Johnson bade me enter. Her face was as stern as Mrs. Coteau’s had been when she sent me. She was holding a book that I recognized all too well.

  “Explain this to me,” she said, her teeth gritted as if to bite back her fury.

  I could do nothing but stare at my book. What was she doing with it? How had she happened on it? I had left it in its usual place — between the blanket and the ropes of my cot. Mrs. Coteau had said that Mrs. Johnson never entered the kitchen. Yet somehow my book had ended up in her possession.

  “You came here filthy, penniless, diseased, and yet I took you in,” Mrs. Johnson said. “And this is how you repay me! How dare you write these things about me! How dare you presume to judge me!”

  My mouth gaped. Not only had she taken my book, she had read it. She had read my personal thoughts!

  Then she dismissed me. “You are to leave my house this instant,” she said. “You are ungrateful and ignorant.” She opened my book, grasping one half in each hand, and made ready to tear it in half. I didn’t think about what I was doing. I lunged forward and wrenched it from her. She looked at me in astonishment. Her face turned scarlet and she slapped me on my face.

  I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I was too angry. She had wronged me. I raised my hand and slapped her back.

  The room was silent. Mrs. Johnson stared at me, her eyes black with fury. A red welt the size of my hand appeared on her cheek.

  “I could have you arrested,” she screamed. “Leave my presence. Leave at once.”

  My legs shook as I left the library clutching my precious book. I went straight to the kitchen and stood there for a moment. I removed the apron I was wearing, folded it, and calmly set it on my cot. Mrs. Coteau watched me. She did not say a word. Taking only my book, I left.

  I could not decide what to do. I had no friend in the city save Connor, and I did not know where to find him. I had no choice. I made my way back to the nuns, who took me in without a word. I am so grateful to them.

  August 7, 1847

  Sister Marie-France sent for me at mid-morning. Her face was stern when she told me that Mrs. Johnson had paid a visit for the express purpose of lodging a complaint against me. She said that my actions displayed lack of gratitude and, worse, lack of humility. A person in my station could not afford to act as I had. Moreover, I did harm to other girls who had lost their parents and who relied on the charity of the sisters and the goodness of women like Mrs. Johnson who were willing to take into their homes girls who had none save the sisters to vouch for their character.

  “What do you think would happen to other girls if ladies like Mrs. Johnson believed that they would all behave as you did?” she asked.

  I had not thought of that. I know that a girl alone in the world, as I am, needs respectable employment, which they will never obtain if th
ey have a reputation for making trouble or for bad character. I apologized for the trouble I had caused and said that I hoped I had caused no ill reflection on the sisters or their charges. Sister Marie-France bade me go to confession at the next opportunity and, in the meantime, to fetch a scrub brush and bucket and make the hall floor gleam.

  When I turned to leave, she asked if it was true that I wrote every day in a small book. I felt my face burn, but I could not lie to her. When I said yes, she looked at me for a moment and said I would be better off using my book for reflecting on my own life rather than noting down gossip about ladies like Mrs. Johnson.

  Hanging my head, I turned to leave. Sister Marie-France called me back. Her voice was gentler now, and she told me she had something else to tell me. She had just this day received a letter that concerned me.

  I whirled around, my heart soaring. It must be from Michael — or from Uncle Liam — for who else could it be?

  Sister Marie-France’s sad and sombre eyes dashed my hope to smithereens. The letter was from the postmaster in Bytown, near where my uncle lived. Uncle Liam has moved! He sold his land in the Gatineau Hills only a month ago and moved to where the land is even better. The postmaster knows the general area where Uncle Liam has gone and has written to another postmaster to find out for sure where he is. He will send word to Sister Marie-France as soon as he hears anything. He also says that Uncle Liam wrote to his brother in Ireland last autumn and feared the worst when he received no reply.

  I reeled to hear this news. Why did Da not get this letter? Has Uncle Liam given up on us? Is that why he moved? And does he now, like Michael, believe me dead? And what of Michael? Will he be able to find Uncle Liam? What if he cannot? What will become of him?