The storm was fierce, and as she turned west on the railway track the wind blew directly into her face, threatening to take her breath away. Her hair was matted with snow and had frozen onto her head like a cap. Jennie kept in the front of her mind the picture of her mother-in-law’s face when she realized that her precious fox stole was burning. The satisfaction of that was fuel enough to keep her from falling into a snowbank and freezing to death.
Finally, she reached her parents’ house and fell against the door. Pap opened it and Jennie collapsed into his arms. Mam and her sisters came rushing to her aid. They stripped off her frozen clothes, sat her by the stove so her hair could thaw out, and got her some hot tea. Her legs showed white spots of frostbite and her sister had to massage them to bring back the blood flow.
Tom was up the track to the Sullivan house at first light. “I would’ve been here before,” he said to Mam, “but my mother had pains in her chest and I went to get the doctor for her.” He was beside himself with shame from the realization that he had acted in a dishonourable way toward his wife. And so he should be, was Mam’s opinion.
She gave him short shrift. “Jennie’s too ill to be bothered right now, Tom. Go on back home and look after your mother. And think about this: a husband’s first duty is to his wife, not his mother.” And with that she slammed the door in Tom’s face.
Jennie developed pneumonia and burned with fever for two days. In her delirium, Suze was chasing her, and right along at her heels ran the stole, a live fox again and not some dead thing with glass eyes. She cried out and kept running, but tripped over the fox and fell.
It was several days before Jennie could manage to keep her eyes open long enough to speak and to drink some broth. Mam nursed her tenderly, glad to have her daughter home again instead of in there on Halls Bay Road with the Protestant heathens.
Three weeks went by before Mam would let Tom in to see Jennie. He’d come every day, knocking on the door, cap in hand, inquiring about his wife, but Mam was firm. “She’s still very sick, Tom. If there’s any change for the worse, someone will come and let you know.”
Eventually, Jennie was able to sit up in bed with the pillows propped behind her. Mam told her that Tom had been wanting to see her. “’Tis time to make a decision, Jennie. I knows you never want to live in with that old Suze again, but you and Tom have a marriage together. Tell me when you’re well enough to speak to him.”
Jennie fretted about her hair, lanky and sweaty from the fever. Her sister washed it for her, tied it back with a green ribbon, and produced a frilly bed jacket to cover her nightdress. Bed jackets were considered the proper bedwear for accepting visitors.
When Tom came again, Jennie told Mam to let him in.
His big form stood by the bed. No one offered him a chair as he shifted from foot to foot. “Ah . . . ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Jennie, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry, so sorry I couldn’t come after you that night. My mother had chest pains. You knows she has a bad heart. I had to walk to the doctor’s house and get the doctor. I figured you’d be all right to get home, you being a big strong woman and all. I never thought you’d get so sick. I’m sorry.”
Jennie listened to what he had to say. She could see that Tom had not changed in regard to his mother and waited for him to say that he didn’t believe his mother’s lies.
But he said nothing.
Jennie looked at him, the man she had married for better or for worse. Her eyes filled with tears.
“I still love you, Tom, and I guess I always will. Your mother treated me badly from the first day I went to live with her.” He started to speak, but Jennie held up her hand. “Let me finish, please. I know you don’t believe me, but hear this. I’ll only come back to you on one condition: when you get a home for us away from your mother.” She closed her eyes. “Please go now.”
Whenever he came to see her after that, she would get Mam to say she was in bed, resting. At first he would knock on the door a couple of times a day. Then, in a week or so, it was only once every few days. Then he stopped coming altogether.
10
Father Kevin Murphy was parish priest of the Roman Catholic Church of Badger. His parishioners made up half the population of the town. The rest was made up of Protestant religions – United, Anglican and Pentecostal.
Father Murphy considered that he ran a pretty tight ship. The school was well-built and clean. The convent housed eight black-robed nuns who answered to him. He liked to think of his church as a jewel. It was small, not like the big one down in Grand Falls. The altar and the pews were of warm, hand-carved wood and seemed to glow from inside with their own light. When the sunlight came through the stained glass windows, it was as if God was saying, “This is a beautiful thing.”
He remembered coming to Badger in 1952. It was his first posting in Newfoundland. He had arrived in St. John’s from Ireland the year before and had applied for a parish with the archdiocese. Father Murphy never knew what chips fell into place for him to be sent to Badger, but he was a firm believer in the Hand of God guiding him wherever he was supposed to go.
His first task was to set up church, school and convent, all in one area. The Church had just purchased a block of land on Church Road, prime real estate for Badger. It included a lovely big house that had belonged to one of Badger’s first merchants. It made a perfect convent for the Presentation Sisters.
The church, with the small school attached to it, had originally stood across the railway tracks on the other side of Badger. When the church officials decided to bring it across to the new property, they left the little school where it was, as they were building a larger one on the new site. The little school eventually became Alf Elliott’s telegraph office.
Every able-bodied man in the town helped, and religion, always a hot subject, was put aside. The men put big logs under the church and poled them along. The church moved, inch by inch, foot by foot. When they came to the railway tracks, the Canadian National Railway helped by stopping train traffic and taking up a stretch of the rails in the path of the rolling church. Linesmen had to see to the overhead wires on the poles that ran along by the track. When the church passed over, the sectionmen worked frantically to replace the length of rails for train traffic to continue.
Once across the tracks, more logs had to be put across the railway’s big drainage ditch. Then, to get the church to its new location, it had to come across Herb Day’s garden to Church Road. Down came the back fence and the front fence. The church was eased through backward, so that when it arrived across the road at its final resting place, the entrance would be facing the road.
Father thanked all who helped. Some came back to the rectory with him for a dram or two of rum. They were all proud of themselves for a job well done. Friendships were formed that day that had nothing to do with religions. One of those was between Ned Sullivan and Albert Hillier. Although their children, Tom and Jennie, had separated, Ned saw no harm in asking Albert to come along. Albert pushed his Pentecostal religious principles aside, swallowed down the liquor, and hoped that Suze, his stern wife, would never hear about it. As the priest’s rum slid down their throats and their tongues became looser, they laughed together and swapped stories. Albert, when he was away from Suze, was no different from any of the other men.
Father Murphy soon learned first-hand about living conditions in the woods camps. He’d been called up on Sandy one night to administer last rites to a man on whom a tree had fallen, crushing his chest.
The priest went with Abel Miller, the A.N.D. Company transportation man. The cable boat spun them across the deep, swiftly flowing Exploits and, once across the River, Father Murphy was bundled into an old Company truck and jounced along woods roads until they came to the camp.
When the priest entered the camp, he was astonished. There were at least forty men sleeping side by side on a platform with just boughs for mattresses. The only heat came from an oil drum that had a chimney running up through the roof. Hung a
ll around the stove were the men’s wet and dirty clothes, drying out for the next day.
Someone had moved the dying man out to the forepeak and onto the foreman’s bunk. He was pretty far gone. They’d taken off his boots, but he was still lying in his wet clothes.
“Father,” the man spoke softly, with an Irish lilt to his voice, “thanks for comin’. I’m from St. Mary’s Bay. I got a wife and nine children.” A fit of coughing overcame him and Father Murphy could hear the death rattle in his throat.
He quickly laid out his tools for Extreme Unction – holy water, oil, a candle, a crucifix – and donned his vestments. But the man wasn’t finished. “Father, please write to the priest out there. Tell him to look out for my kids.”
His eyes closed and his breathing slowed. Father Murphy anointed the man and said the prayers to send his soul onward. He wondered if he should bury the man in Badger cemetery. St. Mary’s was a long ways away.
Tom left Badger. Someone told Jennie he’d gone by train up to Buchans where he’d gotten a job in the mines. Working in the mines was dangerous work because of rock slides and cave-ins. It was good money, though, if a man could stay at it.
For Jennie, the winter dragged along. She didn’t go to the Pentecostal church. A chance meeting with Suze was more than her weakened state could manage. Mam and Pap and her family trudged off faithfully to Mass every Sunday and Jennie stayed home and cooked dinner.
She kept as busy as she could. It wasn’t hard to find something to do around the house with nine siblings to help look after. Mam was good to her, helping her gain back her strength by spooning Brick’s Tasteless into her before every meal. In the evenings they sat by the wood stove and darned socks. Mam had bought some homespun wool and, together, they’d knit wool stockings for Pap and Phonse for their logans.
Jennie knew Mam must have spoken privately to Pap and told him not to torment her. Being of Irish descent, he liked to take a drop now and then. With the drink in him, he could be a bit lippy about the Protestants. But Pap never said a word to her about Tom or his family.
Every evening at five-thirty Pap turned on the Gerald S. Doyle News Bulletin. No one was allowed to speak until he’d heard every bit of the news and weather. With all the girls and women in the house, this of course was impossible, so Mam had installed Pap in the little bedroom off the kitchen. With the door just ajar, he could lie on the bed, turn on his radio that operated on a huge battery, and listen to the news and weather in peace.
One evening, when Jennie and her Mam were sitting comfortably by the kitchen stove, Jennie got up nerve enough to talk to her mother about her own marriage. “Mam, I think that the reason I never had a baby is because I left the Catholic Church and went with the Pentecostals. Do you think that God is punishing me maybe?”
Mam finished knitting her round on the sock. “Perhaps you’re like me, Jennie,” she said. “I was married to your father for a good spell before I had you. Then, once I got started, there was no stopping the children from coming.”
“Is there a secret, Mam? Is there something I can do? I mean, is there something I can do to have a baby if I get back together with Tom?”
“No, my dear. We’re just slow to take, that’s all. Don’t you worry about it. You’ll have a baby one of those days. First, though, you have to get your husband back and your lives straightened out.”
Ralph Drum came to visit every now and then. He was cheerful and uncomplicated and just what she needed. Jennie would ask him to sit and play Auction Forty-Fives with her. Jennie always loved the game and she was good at it too, winning more than her fair share of hands. Ralph would play cards for as long as she wanted.
Auction Forty-Fives wasn’t like Auction Hundred and Twenties. Two people could play Auction Forty-Fives and have fun. With Hundred and Twenties, you needed four or more people to get the trumps out on the table. Pap had the most unusual story about Forty-Fives. He said his grandmother, who had been born and grew up in Ireland, had told him that they played the game there too. However, she said it was called Forte-Fives and was based on a card game played in the 1500s by King James I. Forte, his grandmother allowed, also meant strong and, in the game, the five was the strong trump card. It all made sense to Jennie when she heard Pap tell the story.
Catholics loved playing cards, but the Pentecostals frowned upon it. Jennie had missed the card games while she lived with the Hilliers. If the day ever came when they had a home of their own, there’d be fun and good times and music. They’d all play cards too.
During these times, Ralph would tell her stories about his grandfather, about the Beothuk and the Mi’kmaq legends and his efforts to find himself a wife. One day he told her about a treasure up on Hodges Hill – two beautiful pearls, alone in a small cave. Jennie said she wished she could see them. She knew where Hodges Hill was. It was visible from anywhere in Badger and Grand Falls. People had an expression, “as old as Hodges Hill,” meaning that it had been part of the landscape forever. Why was it, Jennie mused, that men were free to roam and women were not? Why couldn’t she climb Hodges Hill if she wanted? Jennie told herself that one day she would try it.
Another time, Jennie asked Ralph about the blackflies story, back when he and Tom and Vern had first gone in the woods as young men in their teens. Tom had told her about Vern’s obsession with getting Ralph to tell him the secret of why the flies didn’t bother him and they had laughed about it. She missed the laughter. She missed everything about Tom.
“So, Ralph, the boys say you can make magic with yourself and the flies.”
“Jennie, give it up! It comes to me on the wind, that’s all I can tell you. But if I’d told the boys that, they’d have laughed and called me nuts! I dare say you think I’m nuts too. And perhaps I am, maid.” He laughed.
But Jennie knew he wasn’t nuts. She thought that Indians had a special relationship with the elements that white people had no clue about.
Up to that point, Ralph had never mentioned the split between her and Tom, no matter how often he visited. He thought Jennie would bring it up herself, but she didn’t. He decided to ask her.
“Jennie, I knows ’tis none of my business, but what are you going to do about Tom? I heard the guys saying that when he left home he said he might never see Badger again.”
Jennie folded the cards in her hand and held them against her heart. “I told you before, Ralph. Suze Hillier is a bad woman. I can’t live in her house, you know. If Tom isn’t man enough to get us a house, I’ll stay here with Mam and Pap.” Her eyes filled with tears and, to her embarrassment, she broke down and cried.
“Aw, come on, Jennie. Don’t cry. I’m sorry I brought it up.” Ralph seemed unsure how to deal with the situation. “Listen, how about I sing you a song? Would that cheer you up? Huh?”
Jennie sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Oh, shush, Ralph. You might be a fine musician, but you can’t sing worth beans.”
“I’ll do Hank Snow for you! I will. Listen . . .”
That made Jennie giggle and she put aside her tears as Ralph tried singing through his nose.
“Oh, you foolish thing, stop it and let’s finish our game.”
She often thought of this in the years to come. Of Ralph’s kindness and sweetness and what a good friend he had been to her.
11
At the back of Alf Elliott’s garden was an old building called the “goat house.” Years ago, people had kept goats for milk and meat, goats being easier to care for than large cows. The little building had been empty for a long time, but the strong odour of male goat still clung to its dirt floor. Low-ceilinged, snug and warm, once Alf had it cleaned up, he figured that it would make a great photography darkroom.
He asked Mary to get out her Jeyes Fluid, and together they scrubbed out the little building. It needed a floor, so Alf got a bit of lumber from someone who owed him a favour and Ralph Drum helped him nail it down. It made a fine little darkroom, but somehow the smell of male goat never quite left it. Mary wrinkled her no
se every time she went in there, which wasn’t often. Alf’s photo lab was his private space.
He ran a couple of long extension cords from his house down to the goat house, joining them up with electric tape. For lighting, he only required a single red bulb. Along two of the walls he built countertops where he set up developing pans, the printer box and the dryer. He strung wires up like clotheslines, complete with clothespins, to hold the strips of film to dry. And Alf’s photography darkroom was in business.
In the semi-darkness, he would unroll the long piece of black plastic film from the camera, attach clips to each end, and carefully slosh the strip back and forth in the negative developer acid. Then he would hang it dripping wet on the line, pinned with a clothespin. Any black streamer of drying negatives hanging from the line was a delicate thing, and one had to be careful not to brush against it.
Next evening, after supper, he’d go out to the goat house again and cut the dried strips into usable negatives, putting each set into a separately labelled envelope. Then came the printing of the pictures. He laid each negative on the glass inside the printing box, put a sheet of printer paper down on it, closed the cover, and flashed the light on it for a few seconds. This exposed the image to the photo paper.
Back to another acid tray – the fixer, this time with the printer paper and tongs. To see the image appear on a blank piece of paper was truly amazing. Alf would invite his friends in every now and then to watch. It was like magic to all who saw it. His own children, especially, were fascinated.
At first Alf snapped pictures of the family with a little box-Brownie that everyone used and cost about two dollars. But before long, he sent off to Eaton’s catalogue for a Kodak Hawkeye camera with a flash, topof-the-line photography equipment for the 1950s. This camera cost seventeen dollars, almost the price of a suit of clothes for a man. The Hawkeye also had a time delay which Alf tried one evening by taking his own picture. He was amazed that it really worked.
The Badger Riot Page 8
