"Luke," groaned Frankie, casting his eyes up over the tree-coated hills. "Either I brings him out of the woods and tames him or banishes him to Chouse altogether."
"I allows that's one meeting I'll work on skipping," said Nate, heading for the bank. "Follow along, miss, I takes you to the women. And no matter what Frankie says, I'm not sure if the meeting's a good place for you to meet everyone. We argues down here about the colour of the fog, but this vote is a likely good reason to get everybody stirred up—and right it should when nobody knows rightly what it is they're voting for. What do you say, miss?" he asked, slowing his step as Clair stumbled over her footing.
"I—I'm not sure," said Clair, catching up with him.
"Nobody is," said Nate, carrying on his way. "It's one thing to say, yeah, we're voting for Confederation, but what's that? All we knows is the ways we got, and brother, that ain't too appealing either; never a cent to call your own. But rather the devil you knows, they says, and that's Frankie's job now, seeing how he's hooked in with the merchant—to convince us of the one we knows."
Scarcely listening, Clair nodded, keeping half a step behind, growing more timid as they neared the growing bedlam of shrieking, screeching and singing out from the houses beyond. "When's the vote?" she asked, hoping to quell her fluttering insides.
"Another six weeks. Have you decided yet?"
"Oh, I ... I haven't thought about it much," confessed Clair, and Nate slowed his step, turning to her.
"Of course you haven't, young miss. We feels for your bad fortune." He nodded awkwardly, and Clair, biting down on her lip, moved past him. Kindness could overtake her right now, and she was to be their schoolteacher, not a snivelling schoolgirl. Nate fell quiet, picking up besides her and leading her onto a path between a woodshed, with six-foot logs to one side, and a two-storey house shading the other side. Her mind darkened as she pondered for a second just how much Willamena had parleyed to the Rocky Head crowd about her and her mother and father and all that had happened. But there was no time for further thought, for just then she came to the back of the houses and Clair stopped, staring in wonder. A flat patch of grassland lay before her, about sixty feet across to the woods rising straight up, and the houses and woodsheds arcing around it, forming a communal backyard that was webbed with well-scuffed pathways, and criss-crossed above with tiers of clotheslines running from windowpanes to door jambs, to limb-bared poplars—reminding Clair of a game of cat's cradle gone wild. The lines were half filled now, with flapping sheets and towels as the women hung out of windows or doorways, reeling in their lines, and snapping the clothes from the pins and dropping them into baskets at their feet.
"Here, here, get away—get away from the sheep," a worried voice bawled out, and Clair swung her eyes past the flapping sheets and chattering women to a baa-aaing sheep as it scurried this way and that amongst a bunch of tormenting youngsters and clucking hens that blocked its path. Straightening up from the cramped door of a henhouse, her dress tight around her barrel belly and its hemline flicking with the wind around her heavy, stockinged legs, was the old woman with the white coiled braids, the same who had hid amongst the shadows beneath the stagehead that day, watching her boy walk away to war, and who had stood on the wharf that day her father had come home, waiting his return.
"The birds is going to get ye! The birds is going to get ye!" she bawled out, setting across the patch, pointing the finger of doom down at the youngsters scattering at her feet.
"Who's the birds gonna get now?" asked Nate, hastily stepping to one side, Clair quick behind him, as the sheep scuttled out past them.
"Well, sir—" faltered a voice from above, and Clair glanced up to see a red-headed woman, a few years younger than her mother, looking down upon her, a wide grin broadening her freckled face.
"This is our new teacher," said Nate, and then others were looking her way, and the clotheslines stopped shrieking, and the youngsters stood still in their boots, and the old woman came up close, checking her over through little grey eyes imbedded amidst a mesh of wrinkled flesh.
"Bad day to be taking you on the water, ain't it?" she asked.
"Ah, you worries for nothing, old woman," chided Nate, resting the suitcase down by his feet. "I'd say she's as good a sailor as the best of them."
"Nay, you got no sense, you got no sense," the old woman sputtered. "A wonder you wouldn't drowned, hey maid?" she asked, her foreboding tones giving way to a gap-toothed grin. Caught unawares, Clair grinned back.
"And now that you've met Prude, you might want to meet the rest of the clan," said Nate, nudging her arm and directing her attention to the redhead. "That's her eldest—and my wife—Nora. And her over there's her sister Beth," he added, pointing to another, slightly younger woman with the same crinkly brown eyes. "And Beth's husband is Calve, the fellow in boat with us—my brother—and she's Aunt Char," he called out to a scrawny old woman with a wispy white bun clinging to the back of her head as she swept the hens off her stoop with a straw broom. "She's Prude's cousin. They was raised as sisters, and over there, staring at us from behind her sheets—and that's the most you'll ever see of her—is Prude's youngest sister, Hope—Frankie's mother and deaf as a haddock and scarcely moves outside her door since the day her husband drowned." Nate turned to her, his chuckle partly sympathetic, partly musing. "He drowned same day Frankie was born—that's why yonder fellow there got such shiny boots—she been spending every day since, scrubbing his face and everything else he got, and baking him pies."
"Nate!" hushed Nora.
"Not as if she can hear us," said Nate.
"Still," said Nora. "And you got our new teacher mesmerized," she added, turning to Clair. "Was it rough on the water? We got worried with the wind picking up."
"I'm used to the water," said Clair, struggling to keep her voice from quavering. "I—we always went to Cat Arm with Father in the fall."
"Cat Arm—now there's a spot," said Nate, ruffling the back of a toddler's head as he lurched by. "Perhaps we can go down for a cook-up while you're here. Now, as for them scallywags," he added more loudly, eyes resting fondly on the young ones as they stared shyly up at Clair, "you can start picking them apart in the morning, for sure they'll all be at their seats before the bell rings." A movement in the darkened hallway to his right gave shape to Willamena. "And I suppose you knows who this is."
"I never even heard the boat," said Willamena, coming out on her stoop, eyes squinting over Clair and reminding her of some nocturnal creature coming too suddenly into the light of day. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, Willamena clasped her hands before her in the manner of the merchant when putting on appearances for a stranger just walking into his store; only in this case, it was the people of Rocky Head she must be parading before, thought Clair, because for sure, she, Clair, would have to travel the high seas and be crowned Queen of All Heavens before Willamena would ever allow her such footing. And indeed, it appeared as if the crown had already been fitted, so grand was the manner in which Willamena spoke.
"I suppose, my dear, Frankie told you how bad we all feels about your poor mother? It's only for six weeks anyways that we'll be needing you, but I allows it'll be a great help for Sim and his poor old mother to have you staying down here for a few weeks while they're shifting in. Do you think you can handle it—the youngsters, I mean?"
Clair shrugged, smiling at the young faces staring up at her. "I'm sure," she said, settling her gaze onto curious blue eyes beneath chopped red bangs.
"Frannie!" warned Nora. "Better watch her," she added to Clair, "else she'll be in your room, helping you get dressed in the mornings."
"Yes, and I think it's time we all started getting dressed," said Willamena, "if we wants to get to the meeting. Bring in her suitcase, Nate, b'ye, it's getting late," and with a royal tilt of her head, she stepped back over her stoop.
Clair's stomach plummeted. Dear God, not Willamena and Frankie's, she prayed, the shock of such a thought sending more tremors through he
r still-quivering sea legs. Casting her eyes frantically around the patch, she must've appeared to those watching like a young doe stepping unexpectedly into the light of a campfire. Nora's eyes caught hers—and Beth's—and was that sympathy they beheld? Or pity? But unlike most animals of the wild when encountering a foe, there was no time for resorting to that unlearned manner of response that might send one fleeing into the storm from one's own shadow. Years of being accosted by prying and well-meaning neighbours alike and her training to stand firm her ground in defence of her ailing father and mother had taught Clair well to screen her impulses. Shoring up once more her weakening legs, and with a last nod to the women whose eyes she felt sure were encouraging her, she stepped warily into the camp of her opponent.
Surprisingly, it was a pretty kitchen, neat as a pin and befitting a merchant's daughter with its showy glass figurines decorating every conceivable corner, and the bin laid out with pretty coloured vases and dishes of no inherent value and less possible use except to catch light and brighten the eye of whosoever glanced at them.
"They're my wedding gifts," said Willamena, catching Clair's gaze and trailing a regal finger across a particularly pretty figurine. "A lot of them got sent out from people in Corner Brook and St. John's. When you're a merchant, you gets to know a lot of people everywhere. In there, Nate," she added, stepping around the table in the middle of the room and directing him in through a small doorway with her suitcase.
"I suppose you already knows who you're voting for, do you?" she more said than asked as Nate laid down the suitcase, turning back out.
"Nope, b'ye, can't says I do," said Nate, tossing a wink at Clair as he headed for the door.
"I knows now Luke haven't got ye talked over yet."
"I got ears of me own," said Nate. "See ye's at the meeting." He paused, glancing once more at Clair. "Frankie said you'll be taking her?" he asked Willamena.
"Frankie!" scoffed Willamena. "Sure, it's the youngsters she needs to be meeting, not their mothers, because I dare say they'll try and have some fun with a girl trying to teach them."
"You listen to none of their nonsense, young miss," said Nate. "They're a bit feisty, but nothing a show of the hand or a good threat from the strap won't cure."
"Let's not forget the birds," she offered shyly.
"Geez, don't you go starting on the birds, too." He grinned. "The younger ones are screeching now at the sight of a snipe. See you at the meeting then, and no odds about our grumbling; it's a good bunch you'll find around here." And with a last reassuring wink at Clair, he let himself out the door.
"Yes, ye're a good bunch, ye are," muttered Willamena, her tone turning sour as she shut the door behind him, "as long as ye keeps getting what ye wants, ye're a good bunch." Turning back, she paused, as if wondering at the sight of Clair Gale standing in the middle of her kitchen, and then wrinkling her nose as might a muskrat after getting a good whiff of its own stink, she scurried past her towards a French door, each glass polished to a high glimmer.
"The teacher always stays with me," she said, assuming her royal tilt of a minute ago. "That's why me and Frankie thought it best if you stayed here, too. This in here's the sitting room," she said, the glass door squeaking as she opened it into a larger room, cooler from being closed off from the stove, and heavily furnished with dark oak and a printed chaise. "And this over here," she added, stepping towards a large, hand-hewn desk, tracing a hand carefully across its surface, "is the telegraph machine."
Hooked up to a twelve-volt battery, the raised silver plate sat perfectly centred on a cream-coloured, crocheted doily and was in the direct vision of all who entered the room. "It's the teacher's job to operate it, but I don't look on you as being a real teacher, so I'll keep working it meantime. Besides, the last teacher that come here had me operating it for him. The ones around here feels more comfortable having someone they knows taking and sending their message than a stranger."
"I can't work gadgets, anyway," Clair offered with a discomfited smile, and Willamena, giving the slight bow of one who has just been put upon, whilst the other had no idea a bargain had been in the making, opened another doorway off from the living room, lending Clair a glimpse of frilled bedding and matching curtains.
"We better hurry on, then," she said, snatching a sweater off the bed, "for sure the meeting's started by now—or the arguing, because that's all the Lower Head crowd does is argue, and then loud enough, sir, to burst your drums if you was sitting close enough."
There's truth to them words, Clair thought as she hurried along behind Willamena past Prude's house and around a stack of uncut logs piled high, towards the deep rumblings sounding through the closed door of a small white schoolhouse.
"Humph, Harve," muttered Willamena, as one voice sounded over the rest. Running onto the bridge, she cocked an ear near the door, then without hesitation, pushed it open, stepping inside.
"Everyone," Frankie called out in the sudden hush that fell, "we'll take a minute to meet our new teacher, Clair Gale, from up the Basin. Come, Clair, come on in," and Clair inched uncomfortably inside, awed by Willamena's bluster as she marched before the dozen pairs of eyes, no less cooled by the abruptness of her entry as from the intensity of their meeting, and took a seat atop the teacher's desk, facing them as easily as if it were a room full of school youngsters and she about to give one of her competition speeches. Just as quickly the dozen pairs of eyes fell onto her, sending a flush tinting her cheeks as she stared back, her mind wildly seeking escape from this dreaded force that had laid hold of her life, bringing fear with each intake of breath, and thwarting hope at every turn.
"Lord, Frankie," said Nora, rising from her seat with concern, "you'd have her come meet us in the middle of all this arguing?"
"Arguing? Who's arguing?" asked Frankie, grinning around the room as he took hold of Clair's arm. And noting her reluctance to step forward, he mercifully directed her towards an empty chair besides Nora. "Perhaps we can save the introductions till after," he said as Clair gratefully sat, taking comfort as Nora patted her shoulder.
"Common sense is not one of the things Frankie's known for," whispered Nora, as the fellow, whose loud voice Clair now recognized as Harve's, spoke up directly behind her.
"I don't find fault with the teacher here, but begging your wife's pardon, Frankie, I don't see how we can speak our minds with Willamena here—her father being the merchant and all," he said to a chorus of agreements.
"Youse don't have to worry about that," scoffed Willamena. "I been hearing about cheating merchants all me life, and I can throw on a bit of dirt myself, comes to that—and not only about the merchant, either, so bring it on, I says, and we picks our way through it."
"That's a fine point to make," said Frankie, sauntering to the front of the room, jangling the change in his pockets, "and we can take care of that right now. It's a way of doing things we're going to be talking about—not Saul, and I'm sure Willamena's not going to take anything amiss. Harve, come agin with what you were saying."
"Fine, brother," said Harve loudly, "as long as you thinks it's all right—but what I'd like to know is why you're telling we to vote for a government that never sees us with a cent and always beholden to somebody else. That's what I'd like to know—why you wants us to vote for a government like that—unless you was taking care of your own pocket now." He ended with a loud chuckle. "And by the sounds of that money jangling, you already have."
"Easy to make money," said Frankie amidst more chuckling, "if you're willing to go outside and make it. Is that what you wants—to be travelling around?"
"No, sir, I wants to stay right here," said Harve, "and I wants the coppers, too, right here in me own pocket every month after I straightens up with the merchant. But he don't give we that—and you best be hearing me right, Willameen—but the merchants don't give we nothing but a bill, and sometimes we still owes—after a year's working, we still owes. There's only one way to figure that, sir—"
"Aah, it make
s no difference what you owes or don't owe," Aunt Char cut in. "It's only a piece of paper. We gets all the food we can eat, and what kind of stuff do ye want that ye don't already got?"
"That's for we to figure," shouted a bald-headed old fellow over the loud protest greeting Aunt Char's words. "Be geezes, that's for we to figure."
"Aunt Char and Uncle Herm," whispered Nora, leaning towards Clair, "like two cats, they are."
"There's something to what Aunt Char says," said Frankie, holding up his hand for silence, his tone sounding to Clair as surfed up as the merchant's whenever he was meeting and greeting the scattered cash customer. "You'll never have a need, that's for sure, with the way we got things now. There's no guarantee of coppers in your pockets with Confederation. There's no guarantee of even a job with Confederation."
"How you figure that," asked Nate, "when there's talk of the Canadian companies coming in and starting up sawmills—and what about the roads and wharves they're saying they's going to build?"
"That's talk," said Frankie. "No guarantees. And even if they did guarantee it, there's no guarantee they'd hire you. They'll hire whoever they wants, but here's a guarantee for you—and that's it'll be the younger men they hires on, the ones with the strongest backs."
Clair startled at the outcry greeting those words, and Nora patted her knee reassuringly. "Pay no heed; it's how they works out everything."
"The merchant don't have to give you a day's work to know that," shouted Frankie. "He already knows your work. Knows everything about you. Been taking care of you and your'n for years. Them strangers coming into Newfoundland—the're not going to give you a day to watch you work. They don't know about you and your family. They don't know how you lives. Why'd you want to take a chance on them? And suppose they do hire you, and then puts you in a camp you don't like. Calve, how many camps did you shift around to last year looking for good grub?"
"From Faultner's Flat to Pinchgut, buddy," hollered back Calve, "and I found one, too, brother. Cripes, there's only so much fried dough a stomach can take without his insides starting to stick together," he added loudly to the few titters coming his way.
Downhill Chance Page 16
