Chain Locker

by Bob Chaulk

  Lacking a humourous rejoinder, he replied stiffly, “I can’t imagine myself ever saying sove. Emily, I know I must have surprised you but I meant every word I just said. Perhaps we can we talk some more tomorrow evening? I must go now and prepare for the evening service. You’ll be there, of course?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, taking his arm and leading him down the hall to the kitchen.

  As Emily closed the back door behind Basil, she saw her mother pause her knitting to push the stitches along the needle, simultaneously looking up over her glasses and waiting expectantly for some proclamation about the afternoon, but Emily walked past her into the parlour and closed the door. There she sat for a long time at the little desk in the corner, staring at the wall. Then she took a pen and paper, removed the cork from the ink bottle and dipped the pen, gently touching the inner lip of the bottle to let a drop of ink fall back in, as she searched for the words. Leaning forward over the desk, she neatly scribed in the upper-right corner: Twillingate, March 1, 1931. She paused again and then wrote: Dear Henry…

  At church that evening, she handed the letter to Sadie Gillard.

  chapter six

  Simeon Gillard opened his eyes to a dark room. From the scant starlight shining through the window he could see frost sparkling on the blankets as he lay, sunk into a feather mattress next to his plump, warm wife, Sadie. Apart from Sadie’s quiet breathing, there was not a sound. Good, he thought, no wind. He crept from the bed and into the frigid room. It was colder than usual. This too was good, he reflected, his mind shuffling through the details of the day ahead. He pulled on his woolen socks, tucking the bottoms of his long underwear inside, stepped into his trousers, his thumbs quickly slipping the braces over each shoulder, and pulled on a heavy sweater. He crept into the intense darkness of the windowless hallway and, like a blind man accustomed to every inch of his surroundings, he found and lit the kerosene lamp outside the bedroom door. He entered the bedroom across the hall and shook the two forms under the blankets until he heard a groan from each. The sailcloth-covered stairs bent under his substantial weight as he slowly descended to the kitchen. Before the cold of the floor could seep through his socks, he pulled on a pair of leather boots that stood near the low, black Waterloo wood stove.

  A loaf of homemade bread hung in a net bag above the stove, where Sadie had placed it last night before retiring. He poked around in the firebox and found a few lingering embers to resuscitate the fire before removing the bread. It was still soft. Good. He could tolerate a lot but he thoroughly disliked frozen bread. With the fire coming to life and warming the kitchen, he quietly placed another lamp at the top of the stairs to light the way for his sons.

  By the soft glow of the kerosene lamp he warmed and ate a big breakfast of salt cod, pork scruncheons and brewis that Sadie had prepared the night before, followed by warm bread and molasses. He washed it all down with generous helpings of freshly brewed tea, and rolled a cigarette.

  Simeon was blowing his third smoke ring into the air when Sadie appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s them two not up yet?” she inquired. “Didn’t you call them?”

  “They answered me,” Simeon protested.

  Sadie marched back up and was soon herding their two teenage sons down and into chairs at the table. They were about to accompany her husband on a long and dangerous undertaking, and she was doing all in her power to make sure all three came back to her free from harm. She had loaded them up with all the clothes they could carry and had packed sufficient tea, molasses buns, bread, bottled rabbit and dried salmon to last them a week, even though they would be aboard the ship in four days at most.

  “Now have you got everything?” she asked, her voice rising with emotion as the moment of departure drew near.

  “I b’lieve so, my dear.”

  “You got Henry’s letter there?”

  “Right here in my pocket,” he said, patting his chest near his heart. “A love letter, eh?”

  “That’s none o’ your business.” Normally soft-spoken, Sadie was equally abrupt in her commands to Alfred and Bert. “And ye two hurry up, now. Your father’s goin’ to be gone without youse.”

  Experience had taught them that Sadie could not handle a goodbye kiss or hug right now; she did not trust her emotions at times like this. She quietly made herself busy while Simeon made sure his sons were fitted out, and then all three departed. As he went out the door, he called back to his wife, who gave no reply. Through the window she saw their forms descend to the harbour, each pulling a small sled containing his belongings, their snowshoes carrying them over the deep snow. Simeon was wearing a long coat of white bearskin that camouflaged him against the snow, and her sons wore sealskin coats. She knew they would at least be warm. From the comfort of her kitchen, she watched as they walked down the channel between the two islands that formed the harbour and disappeared from sight.

  She continued to look in their direction long after they had gone. In their twenty-three years of marriage, she had stood at this window more times than she could count, and she hated it more each time. She had no idea when they would return and had no way to contact them while they were away. Important family events came and went without her husband’s presence. On his second trip, he had missed the birth of their first child, and three years ago he had missed the death of that same child, his favourite daughter, on the verge of womanhood. How Sadie had longed for him during those lonely weeks after Caroline was taken from her. But Sadie was strong—she had to be—and while Simeon’s departure saddened her, she did not resent it. It was part of her lot in life, and with the patience born of generations who subsisted on rocky islands washed by violent seas, she looked heavenward for the strength that would sustain her until her husband’s return for a brief time in the spring, only to be followed a few short weeks later by his departure for Labrador in a fishing schooner.

  As he stepped onto the ice in the approaching dawn, Simeon’s thoughts were of Sadie and home, as he wondered how many more years he would be able to do this. He, too, accepted these absences as part of life and did not think a lot about them. Being on the sea was all he knew, and from his home in Twillingate he had always made his living and fed his family from what the ocean provided—fish, seals and birds. He was secure in the knowledge that he had provided abundantly for her in his absence. There was fuel in the woodshed and plenty of food, including dozens of turrs he had shot in the past month. Their eldest son was at home, and Sadie’s parents and brothers were around to help out if his wife were in need.

  “Alf, slow down! You’re gonna have yourself beat out before you’re outa the tickle, b’y.”

  “Come on, Pop, you’re gettin’ old.”

  “We’ll see who’s getting old, after we’ve walked for two days. Take your time, ’cause I’m not gonna carry you. We got even farther to go tomorrow than today, so take it easy there.”

  chapter seven

  Dorcas Horwood, a small, serious woman, had been searching the barren ice through her kitchen window for more than an hour before the three men came in sight. She pulled on her coat and boots and was on the ice, running towards them, waving and shouting before they drew within earshot.

  Simeon shook his head happily. There was no changing his little sister. “Darc, what are you doin’ out here?”

  “Sure I was that glad to see you coming that I couldn’t wait. Come here and give me a big squeeze, right now.”

  She could barely get her arms around her huge brother, while he lifted her into the air as he had been doing since he was a teenager. “My, ’tis some cold out here since the wind breezed up! You fellers must be near froze to death.”

  “We’re fine, Darc. It’s just enough of a draft to keep us from sweatin’.”

  “Hello, boys,” she said, opening her arms wide. “Have you got a hug for me?”

  “Hello, Aunt Darc,” they responded in unison, dutifully hugging Dorcas.

  “How’s Sade doing, Simeon? Is she get
ting through the winter all right?”

  “Best kind.”

  “And that granddaughter? She’s not after getting sick, I hope?”

  “She’s fine, too.”

  “Well, praise God for that. I pray for all of ye all the time, you know, that nobody will come down with TB or nothing. Is she getting a bit of fat onto her bones?”

  “She’s on the go too much, sure. Fat don’t get a chance to take root on ’er.”

  Dorcas laughed warmly. “No, I s’pose. I know that daughter of yours is feeding her good. How is Olive, by the way?”

  “Number one.”

  “Good. Well, Henry and Eli was looking out for you. You just missed them. They decided they had time to go for another load of wood before you got here. They won’t be too long. Come in, now, and I’ll get the kettle on. Eli says it’ll be duckish by the time Dorman and Selby get here from Exploits.”

  As Alf and Bert went into the house, Simeon stopped and took his sister’s arm. “How’s Henry gettin’ on?”

  “Oh, good, good. He says he’s all ready to go back aboard ship.”

  “He better be. I went through a lot of trouble to get him this berth.”

  It was just getting dark when Dorman and Selby arrived from across the bay. The two groups were together for the first time since returning from the annual fishing voyage to Labrador late the previous summer, and there was a lot of catching up to do. Crammed into the modest household, they were eager to get reacquainted.

  “Okay, b’ys,” said Henry, rolling his sleeves up over his muscular arms. “Let’s see what we can do about lowerin’ the level on this pot o’ soup Mom got cooked up here. Sit down, now, Mom; you been on the go all day. I’ll serve these fellers.”

  “You’ll be doing nothing of the sort! Nobody’s takin’ over my kitchen while I got strength in my body.”

  They were a loud lot, shouting over one another to be heard, as Dorcas kept a steady stream of soup and bread flowing, followed by a huge figgy duff and all the tea they could put away.

  “Any word on how the train has been gettin’ on over the winter, Eli?” Simeon asked.

  “Yes, I was talkin’ to Ellis Manuel from Lewisporte. She been snowed in a couple of times up around Red Indian Lake, but he says that so far this year the goin’ between Lewisporte and St. John’s has been good.”

  “Let’s hope it stays good for a few more days, at least until we get to St. John’s,” said Simeon.

  “What time will she be leaving Lewisporte?” Dorcas asked.

  “Tomorrow night around midnight, if the engineer is still awake.”

  “He better be!” Dorman laughed.

  Dorcas furrowed her brow. “My dear, youse’ll be good and tired.”

  “We’ll likely have the whole train to ourselves,” said Simeon. “We should have lots of room to spread out and get some sleep. The big crowds won’t come on board until we get to Gambo, and by the time we make St. John’s she’ll likely be chinched full. I can put up with the crowd so long as she keeps movin’ and we don’t get bogged down in the snow.”

  Henry had been trying to get Simeon’s attention but Simeon, who never missed an opportunity to tease his nephew, kept avoiding eye contact. He finally grinned broadly towards Henry as he got up from the table. “I got something here for you, young fella, from a certain young miss in Twillingate.”

  Henry could not hide his delight. I knew she would write, he told himself.

  Simeon reached into his pocket. His weatherbeaten face suddenly looked grave as he started checking his other pockets. “Well, I s’pose I didn’t go and lose it now, did I?”

  Usually quick with a comeback, Henry’s sense of humour collapsed with the thought that the letter might be back on the ice somewhere, tumbling before the wind towards Greenland.

  Then with a wink and a triumphant, “No, no, here it is!” Simeon handed it over.

  Dodging the smirks and feigned mockery, Henry took one of the lamps, went into the parlour, and closed the door to read the coveted letter in private. Away from the warmth of the big range in the kitchen, he could see his breath in the dingy, sombre room with its red Victorian chairs and dark woodwork. It was rarely used except for important company, and hardly ever in winter. He rolled his sleeves down and buttoned them at the wrists.

  He held the letter to his heart and, closing his eyes for a moment, he envisioned Emily writing to him, seated at the kitchen table, most likely late in the evening, probably wearing the white cotton blouse and long blue skirt she had worn to the schoolhouse that day. His heart raced at the thought of her letting down her auburn hair, her delicate fingers pushing it back with long strokes from her forehead, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling. He longed to hold those graceful hands that had carefully folded his letter and placed it into this envelope.

  It was now over a month since he had seen her, held her in his arms and felt her embrace. Now that he was heading to the seal hunt he had no idea when he would see her again. Certainly it would be months. The words he was about to read would sustain him over the next weeks.

  He opened it and held it close to the dim, yellow lamp, the only source of light or warmth in the room. It was a single sheet of paper, much shorter than her other letters, which were usually filled with heartwarming stories about her pupils, the news of the town, the latest on the Ashbournes, the town’s leading family, what was happening at church, the goings-on at the Women’s Institute, a word or two about Gennie’s health. But it didn’t take much paper to say yes.

  Dear Henry…

  He stopped. Every letter she had ever written him began “Dearest Henry” or ”My Dear Henry.”

  There was none of that. This time Emily got down to business.

  You have been on my mind and in my heart constantly as I have considered how to answer your proposal of marriage. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting for so long.

  The decision has been difficult, but I’ve decided that I’m not ready for marriage. My decision is in no way a reflection on you. The problem lies with me and not you. I have some things I need to sort out.

  Be careful at the ice. If you want, we can talk some more when you get back.

  With love,

  Emily

  Henry looked up from the letter and stared at the lamp. It was an apt companion, its dim, flat flame bravely trying to overcome the darkness, but unable to. He was numb.

  He read it again but that did not change what the letter said. All the anticipation over the winter, awaiting the good news, had not prepared him for this bitter moment. All his visions of the future had Emily at the centre, and now he could feel his dreams fading into the darkness that crowded in on the little lamp.

  Things to sort out? What things could she possibly have to sort out? he wondered. I’ll bet her fear of marrying a sailor finally got to her. I should have told her I was willing to give up the sea, especially after that fiasco on my last trip. It’s got to be that—or else I’ve been kidding myself and she doesn’t love me at all.

  No, she had told him she loved him. It had to be the sailor thing. But, even though he was ready to give all that up for her, had he actually told her so?

  For some reason he was unable to explain, he had not. Nor had he told her the reason for his sudden return home last fall. He was claiming to have ambitions for a nautical career and yet here he was spending the winter at home. Why wasn’t he gaining experience aboard a ship heading to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean? He was trying to have it both ways and she had probably sensed it in his behaviour. He had not been honest with her and she must have seen through it.

  That’s the reason and it’s my own fault. I should have visited her more often. Maybe if I had spent more time with her, our relationship would have blossomed instead of fading like this. To hell with going to the ice; I’ll head to Twillingate and throw myself at her feet.

  No, time had run out. He couldn’t let Simeon down after he had worked so hard to get him a berth. What a mess! The first lov
e of his life was slipping through his fingers and he was powerless to do anything about it.

  But wait. There was one thing he could do. If he couldn’t go to Twillingate, he could at least write to her and ask her to wait until he returned. Yes, he would write her a letter. She couldn’t just say no after keeping him waiting all this time, and expect him to take it without standing his ground.

  There were some things she had a right to know, too, and he would lay all that out. He started rooting around for a piece of paper.

  chapter eight

  Within an hour of their departure the next morning the men were marching along the ice in a long line. Henry was silent but Simeon’s new companions were a gabby pair.

  “It was just like the glass, sir!” Dorman revelled to Selb, speaking of his trip with Simeon last year. “Just before we left, we had a mild spell with a little drop of rain to melt the snow off the ice—nice soft rain. Then she turned cold—no wind now, just cold—so when the water froze it set up as smooth as the top of Walt Clark’s bald head. The whole bay just stretched away, like a big pane of glass. We put on our skates and were in Lewisporte by dark that evening.”

  “I minds it well,” Selb replied. “We skated over to Samson’s Island to see Titus and his family. There was people goin’ everywhere. We even had a crowd over from Whale’s Gulch.

  “But, you know, ’twas a good thing that mild weather didn’t come a week or two later, when fellers was way offshore on the whelping ice. You wouldn’t want rain fallin’ and havin’ it turn cold when you’re soakin’ wet and miles away from shelter.”

  Simeon spoke for the first time since they left Cottles Island. “Selb, you got your money for gettin’ back if you don’t get a berth?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You’ll get a berth, Selb,” Dorman reassured him, with his usual confidence. “With Simeon speakin’ for you, you can’t go wrong.”