Downhill Chance

by Donna Morrissey

  "Yeah, they're always late!" chorused the younger ones.

  "They're not late this morning," commented Clair.

  "Better not put your head too close, miss; they got lice."

  "Shh," Clair cautioned them. She squared her shoulders, alarmed at how faint her breathing was, and walked up over the bridge of the little white schoolhouse. Stepping in through its door, she took another deep breath, looking around the one room. The seats had been put back in neat little rows from the meeting the night before, and the potbellied stove, with its bucket of coals besides it, was highly polished, and the grey-painted floorboards cleanly swept. A small pile of books, a register and a bell sat tidied to the centre of the teacher's desk, and a black leather strap hung besides the well-buffed blackboard. Someone had written Welcome, miss across the blackboard in large, gay lettering.

  Shrieking and squirming, the youngsters clambered ahead of her, finding a seat of choice in the row designated for their grade level, and after much poking and giggling, they gradually quieted, looking to her as she took her place before the blackboard. She looked back, her mouth dry, and her legs beginning to quiver. What now, she asked, her heart beginning to pound, her mind as emptied as a church on Monday mornings.

  Foolishness! she thought. Foolishness! They're youngsters, no different from Missy when she used to read to her. And looking to the littlest in the farthest row, she asked in a voice that shook with nerves, "What's your name?"

  "Susie."

  "And yours?" she asked the next.

  "Danny. Susie's my sister."

  "And I'm Scottie, miss, and he's my brother, Benny."

  "Yup, me and he's brothers," said Benny, "and we and them's cousins."

  Thus it went, one after the other, the oldest being Roddy, son of Nate and Nora; second eldest, Marty, son of Beth and Calve; the curious brown eyes beneath the chopped-off bangs staring adoringly into her face, Frannie, Roddy's sister; and so on till each pair of eyes staring at her became a name, and each name a family. And once they'd all been marked in the register, Clair raised her eyes over their heads, staring at some distant point in her mother's kitchen, and announced in the same clear voice that she'd practised a thousand times with her father that there would be no lessons from their school books this morning, but rather a story about fairies and bluebells that she had learned from her younger sister, Missy, and after which some of them might like to stand before the teacher's desk and tell her a story if they wished. The one who spoke the loudest and clearest would be given the bell to ring at recess, and this would be the way, then, that they would start all their mornings, with stories. Then, noting Willamena strolling by the front of the school, peering curiously in through the windows, "And our stories will be our secret," she added most firmly, "so we can say whatever we wish and nobody will ever hear them but us, right here in this schoolhouse; do ye think ye can keep our stories a secret?"

  "Yes, miss," chorused the lot, and perching on the corner of her desk, Clair began her story.

  Time moved, and within a blink, most of them were scattering out the door for recess and Nora was sauntering in through, shooing out young Frannie and the others loitering around their desks, cradling a cup of tea in her hands.

  "Like I promised," she said, laying the cup before Clair.

  A cup of tea, thought Clair, no different from what her mother would make for Alma or those others coming for a visit. It struck her then, as she smiled her appreciation to Nora, that she wasn't young Clair, Sare's girl, any more, dallying with her cereal so's to keep her spot at the table amidst the adult conversations or practising reading to her father from some far corner so's she could make a grand teacher someday. She was now the teacher. Her heart expanded a little, as it had yesterday upon presenting Frankie with her pay to square off any debts owing; yet a sickening crept through her stomach, the same as she had felt upon seeing the first stain of menstrual blood upon her underwear. And as she had then, she sought to understand this new thing that had claimed her body and was now wrestling for her mind.

  "The people feels bad about you having to leave the meeting yesterday," Nora was saying, sitting on the seat nearest her, the crinkles around her eyes deepening as she smiled. "Most of us didn't know you were coming—or Willamena—till the door opened. Anyways—" she raised her brow expressively "—whatever Frankie was trying to do in getting ye there, it never worked—you seen to that."

  "Me?" asked Clair, startled.

  "Well, what you said about the five-year kitty sure struck a chord," Nora grinned. "Frankie wouldn't expecting that one. Anyways," she said more seriously, "the people are proud to hear you thinks along the same lines as some of we about the merchant, and they wants you to know that you're welcomed in their houses anytime you wants, and to let them know right away if their youngsters aren't listening, and they'll take the belt to them."

  "Oh—no—they've just been fine," exclaimed Clair. "And tell them—the people—I'm grateful for them having me as their teacher."

  "They thinks it's nice—having a woman teacher for a change. How are you finding it?"

  Clair glanced around the room with an exaggerated shrug. "I never thought I'd be a teacher this week," she said impulsively, then faltered.

  Leaning forward, Nora touched one of her hands. "I pities the poor orphans born into the world without a mother and father," she half whispered, "but my heart breaks for them that loses their mother so young. And may God have mercy on those that brings them more hurt by the carelessness of their tongues."

  Clair swallowed. "Was your brother talked about as well?" she asked.

  The smile faded on Nora's face, and Clair sat back, recognizing in its place a look akin to hers whenever others had asked after her poor father and her poor, poor mother, when it was their minds they wanted to know about, wanted to see deep down inside of, and pick and scratch and snip at whatever they deemed odd, improper or sick about it. And she had suffered their inquisitions the way a snail suffers the thousand incantations of youngsters playing on the beaches, to detach their jellied bodies from their protective shells and appear before them—that mountain of segmented parts luring them to their doom with sweetly crooning deceptions of their house being on fire and their children all alone. Sitting now, at her teacher's desk, she wished a cure for her cursed tongue as this woman, Nora, with the warmth of her father's eyes, was now set upon to suffer the same.

  "I expect you've heard otherwise, but Luke's as sound as any man or woman walking," said Nora.

  "No, no. I meant—I meant the one who went to war," Clair said hastily.

  Nora's face reddened. Sitting back, she looked at Clair and spoke apologetically. "I expect we're all guilty of listening to tongues wagging, despite our knowing that yarn gets stretched with every washing." She rose, appearing slightly relieved as some of the younger ones started trailing back in. "You're doing fine, then? They're listening?"

  Clair nodded, rising along with her.

  "That's good, then," said Nora, backing her way to the door. She paused, her foot on the stoop, a trace of her old warmth returning. "Just mind what the people says; they only keeps their door closed on account of the wind. And Frannie and the other girls are already fighting over who gets to name their dolly Clair," and then she was gone, strolling back along the path leading past the woodpile.

  The rest of the day passed with ease, and surprisingly, the rest of the week—even mealtimes with Willamena and Frankie on those rare occasions when Frankie took supper with them and wasn't travelling around the island. And each time he returned, he always had much to say about the upcoming vote.

  "The Confeds are painting a mighty fine picture, with their promises of old age pensions and family allowances and unemployment cheques," he added one evening over baked mackerel and potato. "Plus all their talk of building new roads and wharves and opening up the island—yup, it's a pretty picture."

  Willamena passed him a napkin that matched the yellow of the tablecloth and complimented th
e lamplight bronzing her face. "Nothing they haven't had in Canada all this time," she replied. "Still for all, it didn't keep them from near starving to death back before the war. It was we, then, sending them fish, wouldn't it? And there's nobody starving around here, that's for sure. Dad was saying last week how he could hardly keep up with the orders coming in for lumber."

  "That's because of the war, not the government," said Clair, and immediately took a long drink of water, wishing to wash away her words as Willamena turned to her, a thin veneer of a smile tarnishing the glow of lamplight.

  "Where'd you hear that?" she asked. "I thought it was thieving merchants they blamed everything on."

  "Willamena's still thinking the vote's either for or agin her father," said Frankie as Clair bent her head over her mackerel. "I hear you've been down Lower Head for dinner?"

  And Clair, eager to bypass the merchant, was quick to relate the names of the people she'd met, and the good behaviour of the school youngsters; yet her one concern, she told them, was the Hurlys, who couldn't get their boys to attend school and listen to a woman teacher.

  "The Hurlys!" snorted Frankie. "They never listened to anybody in their life—what's they going to start now for? Bar them out if they starts coming; they're too big to be in school, anyway."

  "Listen to Frankie," said Willamena, "I suppose they got as much right as anybody to get a education."

  "What for—so's they can learn how to pile a cord of wood? Cripes, Willamena, they're either going out in the boat, fishing, or in the woods, cutting; either way, it's the broad of their backs that's going to get them through life, not pencils and scribblers."

  "I suppose that's for them to say—"

  "Yup, and both the mister and missus had their say—at the meeting," said Frankie, his ear cocking towards a dog's yap outside. "Everyone was in agreement with Clair's coming then, so there'll be no more talk about it."

  "Where you going—wait for your tea," said Willamena as he shoved back his chair, rising. "And don't worry about him," she added, rolling her eyes towards the door and the sound of the accordion starting up. "He's been out there every night this week, scrooping that box."

  "I'll have it later," said Frankie.

  "Sir, you're always running off," cried Willamena, following him to the door, "and I got some gingersnaps made, too."

  "I'll have one with tea."

  "Frankeee!"

  "I'm just checking on the gear—I'll be back in a bit."

  "Gear! Where you going—Frankie, you're not going to Chouse agin—you just got home!"

  "One night is all. You can come, if you wants," said he impatiently as Willamena put herself between him and the door.

  "Right, and spend the night with he in a bough-house."

  "Bough-whiffen—and we can make our own if you wants. And don't mind her," he said, tossing a grin to Clair as he moved Willamena aside. "She don't like no one preaching for Confederation. Besides, she got it in for Luke ever since she got a fright once."

  "I dare say! Looking through my window, he was—"

  "Looking at your window, he was," cut in Frankie. And opening the door, he let himself out.

  "Lord, Frankie, sir!" cried Willamena with such dejection that Clair turned to her in surprise.

  "He often goes fishing?" she asked sympathetically.

  "Only with him—that's all he can get him to do, he's so loony," she ended sourly. And spurred to charity by her moment of humility, she turned to Clair: "I didn't mean nothing," she exclaimed quickly and just as quickly assumed her queenly tilt. "Anyway, Frankie don't like for me to talk about it," she said, rising. And marching into the sitting room, she closed the French doors behind her, leaving Clair alone with the table and the dirty dishes.

  Later, after Frankie had his tea and gingersnap, and he and Willamena had retired to their room for the evening, and the patch had been cleared of chickens, sheep and bustling souls, Clair lay back on her bed, her curtains slightly drawn, watching the first stars prickle through the evening sky, and listening to the sea rustling up over the beach rocks.

  "IT'S MY TURN," ANNOUNCED RODDY the next morning, rising from his seat, a scribbler in his hand. "Can I, miss?"

  "No, I wants to tell," cut in Marty.

  "You've already told one, Marty," said Clair. "And it's 'may I,' Roddy, and yes, you may," she added, stepping aside from her desk, and taking Roddy's seat as he stood before the room, hair wet and standing straight up from an horrific morning's brushing, and a smidgen of jam sticking to his bottom lip.

  "It's a big story, so I'm going to tell it in bits, all right, miss?" he began. "A bit right now, and a bit tomorrow and the next day—"

  "Hope now, my son, you can't do that," protested Marty.

  "Sure he can," said Clair. "Whoever wants to tell a story in bits can. Go ahead, Roddy."

  Wrinkling his nose at Marty, Roddy took a deep breath and began.

  "'Once upon a time there was this contrary boy named Henry who hated and complained and made fun at everything in his house, till one day his mother drove him out.

  "'And don't come back here till you gets better manners,' she bawled after him.

  "'Ha,' said he, 'it's me own house I'll be getting, and once I finds it, I won't be back here no more, either.'

  "'And no you won't be,' called out his mother, 'fore if you goes up that shore, you'll be took by strangers and boiled in hot tar and never be seen or heard from agin, I'll warrant you that.'

  "'Cripes, took by strangers,' scoffed Henry, 'big fellow like me, took by strangers. Foolish is what you is, Mother, bloody foolish.'

  "So he starts off up the shore, looking for his own house. Well, he was so mad that he never minded going way on up the beach by his self. And he scarcely ever looked back, checking that he could still see the smoke from his mother's chimney curling up over the trees. But after awhile, sir, he started getting a bit tired, and too, he never had nothing to eat yet the day, and he was starting to wish for a slice of bread and some molassey. And then, when he thought he was going to faint he was so starved, he spied another fellow, same age as he, sitting on a rock, munching on a big chunk of scald pudding.

  "First he was a bit scared because this other fellow was a stranger, even though he was his own age, and he was always thinking on his mother's stories about strangers carrying boys off and soaking them in boiling tar. But he was so starved, he went up to the fellow, anyhow. And besides, this fellow had nice shiny eyes, and a great big smile and didn't look one bit mean.

  "'Hey, buddy, you got a piece of scald pudding to spare?' he sings out.

  "Now, this young fellow, his name was Conner. And even though he was nice enough, he was lazier than a cut cat and was always looking for a way to con his way in to or out of something. That's why he was called Conner—sly as a Conner.

  "'What're you doing all by yourself up here?' he asks Henry.

  "'I'm leaving me old mother's house,' said Henry, pointing back to where he could still see her smoke curling up over the trees, 'and I'm going to find me own.'

  "'Ooh,' says Conner, 'that's a fine idea.' But that's not what he was thinking at all, because along with being sly and lazy, Conner was just as scared of strangers and stuff as Henry. So he was wanting a nice comfortable house to heave off in. And he was wanting some good grub, too. So he thinks, Mmm, I wouldn't mind living in Henry's mother's house, with the fire going and for sure, there'd be bread baking. So he gives all of his scald pudding to Henry and says, 'Now I got nothing left, so you got to take me with you and let me live in your house when you finds it.' That was fine with Henry.

  "'All right, b'ye, that's fine with me. But first you got to help me find one.'

  "'Well, that's going to be hard to do,' said Conner with the big frown, as if he was thinking heavy. Then he looks up and says, 'I knows—let's go back to your mother's. I bet she got some good bread baked by now.'

  "'I already said I was never going back,' snaps Henry, 'so come with me if you wants.'


  "Ol' Conner, he didn't like it, but he figured he'd best go along for awhile, till he got another chance to change Henry's mind. And Henry was glad Conner was coming, because, see, he never let on, but he was starting to feel a bit scared by now, being this far away from his house. So off they went, walking side by side, up the beach, Henry talking about finding his own house, and Conner trying to weasel him back to his mother's by saying things like 'Bet your old mother's worried about you now,' or, 'You think she's out looking for you, yet, Henry?'

  "But Henry was caught on to Conner's weasling and just kept on walking up the beach, every now and then, whistling a bit. And that's when they seen this other fellow, same age as them. All curled up, he was, in the root of a big log, just like a baby. And he was skinny and shivering all over, with no socks or boots on, and when he opened his eyes and seen Conner and Henry staring at him, he never even got a fright, he was feeling that miserable. And all he done, when Henry and Conner come right up close to him, was sit up and look. And that's when Henry and Conner seen the gun lying under him. And that's all I'm going to tell ye's the day." Looking proudly at Clair, Roddy marched back to his seat.

  "Oh, yeah, my son," said Marty.

  "Can't tell it if that's all I got made up, can I, miss?"

  "Guess not," said Clair. "Did you make it up all by yourself, Roddy?"

  Roddy shrugged. "Henry's making it up, miss."

  "Then Henry's a good storyteller," said Clair, nodding her praise.

  Missy would like it here, she thought later that afternoon, gazing over the little rows of bent heads, studiously working on their assignments. But then, as always when she thought of Missy, her face darkened and she paced the floor between the rows of desks, wringing her hands and looking for a tardy student she could sit with, or take the dusters outside and beat them together till chalk clouded the air around her, rendering her head and shoulders to that of her father's the morning he had sat at the kitchen window, sheathed in pew dust. And chance she was caught without a pencil, a ruler or a book to occupy her hands, she was running for the mop and broom to sweep, scrub or polish the grey-painted floorboards. And when an unexpected rain threatened the caplin drying on the flakes, she'd lecture her students to stay seated and finish their lessons, and bolt outside with the rest of the women, quickly hauling sheets of canvas over the catch, or layering with boughs those the canvas couldn't reach.