Ralph could play wonderful music on the fiddle. All night he kept low-key background music going as people sat around the room, talking, drinking a drop of rum and smoking. Some of the tunes he played would break the heart of a grindstone. Many a tear was shed as he played Nearer My God to Thee. People associated that with the Titanic disaster, which was still fresh in people’s minds after forty years. It was somehow appropriate for a wake as well.
The candles guttered low at the head and foot of the coffin. Conversation had pretty much run out. In the quiet of the night, Ralph pulled his chair close to Mam’s coffin and, slowly and sweetly, played A Mother’s Love is a Blessing. He played it for Jennie, Phonse and the girls, but he looked straight at Jennie as he played, the dim candlelight reflected in his dark brown eyes. The notes fell and lingered on the air in the shadowy smoky room where Jennie and her sisters, even Pap and Phonse, wept softly.
Mam was buried next to the twins. Her favourite flowers were lupins, with their tall purple spikes. Within two years, there were lupins growing on Mam’s grave where none had ever been planted, the only grave in the cemetery that had them. Things like that, Jennie thought, makes you believe in life after death.
15
Mr. Anderson insisted Richard use his first name and call him Rod. On the second morning of their visit, Rod said he had some work to do up at the camp and asked Richard if he would like to come along. Interested to see first-hand what life was like for men who cut trees to make paper, Richard readily agreed.
Soon after breakfast they bid farewell to the women, set off and walked down to the River. The large flat-bottomed scow was tied up, attached to a cable. On the same cable was a small boat with an outboard motor. Rod explained that the scow, often loaded with horses, tractors, equipment and supplies, was slow and ponderous. The little boat was there to give a hand to nudge the scow out into the eight-knot current. The small boat could also go across on its own, for quick trips across the River to Sandy. They both climbed aboard and Richard noted that Rod was very adept at using it, a skill most Badger men learned from boyhood.
Rod angled the boat slightly upriver and the power of the current whipped them across to the other side. The two men got out of the boat and climbed onto a small wharf and sent the boat back along the cable for the next person to come along. When Richard asked how they would get back again, Rod pointed to a large bell attached to a pole on the side of the dock. Richard thought the cable boat and scow setup was ingenious and commented so to the older man. Rod told him that some engineer had invented it back in 1910
A dusty red pickup truck was parked on the other side and they climbed aboard. Rod’s camp was about twenty miles in on a narrow woods road. As the truck bounced along in the ruts, Richard looked out the window, his city eyes taking in the dense forest that stretched for miles and miles.
Finally, they pulled up to the Anderson camp in a clearing. Getting out of the truck, Richard looked at the low log building in front of him. He could see no one about and figured all the men were out working in the woods nearby. He followed Rod into the building and entered what appeared to be the office, known to the loggers as the forepeak. A table built into the wall served as a desk. It was littered with papers and tools, tin cans used as storage containers, and old enamel mugs with blackened bottoms. Rod walked over to the desk and started rifling through some of the papers. Richard looked around the room to see a small cot on the opposite wall where he supposed Rod slept when he came up to work.
Without looking up, Rod said to him, “I got a bit of work to do, my son. Feel free to look around on your own.”
Richard wandered out the small hallway into the loggers’ sleeping quarters, a long, narrow room with a small window on the farthest end. Along both sides, pushed up against the rough-hewn walls, were old war-surplus army cots. Quickly counting, Richard could see there were ten sets of bunk beds per side, making room for forty men to sleep. Clothes were strewn about everywhere, beds were unmade, cardboard suitcases and clothes bags littered the floor. In the centre of the room was an oil drum on its side. A door was cut in the end of it and a stovepipe led out of the top and disappeared into the roof. Beside it were tossed a few junks of firewood.
Walking over to one of the walls, Richard peered to the outside through one of the small spaces between the logs. Most of the holes had been stuffed with moss and old newsprint, but there were still many gaps. Even with the ventilation from the holes, the air still smelled of dirty socks. Richard wrinkled up his nose.
“Can I help you, young fella? Are you from a newspaper or something?”
Richard turned to see an older man standing behind him. He was trimming the wick on a kerosene lamp.
“Oh no, no sir. I’m just a visitor,” Richard replied, straightening up and moving away from the wall.
“Never seen a woods camp before, I bet.” The man laid down the kerosene lamp on the makeshift table and chuckled.
“No, sir. I haven’t.”
“Well, my son, this is a good camp. ’Tis rough work, make no mistake about that,” the man said. “Oh, I’m the cookee, by the way. Bert is me name.” He held out his hand to shake.
Richard shook it. “Richard Fagan. Pleased to meet you, Bert.” The hand that shook his was gnarled and dirty.
“Yes, my son, we’ve had some improvements lately since the war.” He hawked and spit on the dirt floor. Richard couldn’t help but step back slightly. Bert continued. “For years and years the men slept on wooden platforms with only spruce boughs for their mattresses. But after we joined Canada in ’49 we got these cots from the army. They’re a lot better than them spruce boughs, I can tell you that. That is if you don’t mind a few lice and bedbugs. We tries to get rid of them, but they always seems to come back. But what do you expect with a bunch of men living together, eh?” The older man coughed and hawked again, but instead of spitting, he eyed Richard and, at the last moment, decided to swallow it.
“What do you do out in St. John’s, me son?”
Richard turned to look about the room again. “I am with the city police.”
“Are ya now! Well, a policeman! First one we ever had up here. Not that we ever needs one. There’s nothing up here to steal and most times the men solves their own disputes. Hey, would you like me to show you around? Maybe you might like a job if you gets tired of being a policeman.”
Richard looked into his guileless eyes and wondered if Bert was a bit simple-minded. Knowing he meant no harm, he smiled and said that, yes, he would like to have a tour.
“Well this is the bunkhouse, as you can see. That there is the oil drum we uses to heat the place. Gets pretty cold in here if that thing goes out. Sure, one time last October it went out during the night and I woke up with the frostbite on me ears.” He laughed, showing broken, tobacco-stained teeth.
They walked back out in the hallway and Bert showed Richard three enamel pans that were sunk into a table against the wall near the entranceway. “That’s the door where the men come in through, and the first thing they do is to wash up.”
Richard saw a barrel filled with cold water and a dipper. It would seem that this was not only the men’s washing water, but their drinking water as well.
Pointing out through the door and toward the trees, Bert said, “If you needs to go, that’s the outhouse up through that way. I’ve worked in all the camps up here. They’re all Company property, but some are worse than others. This one got the cots and the roof don’t leak as bad as some of them. Rod tries to run a good camp and he’s fair with the men.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Well, the day’s a-wastin’ and I got to get me bread on to bake. ’Tis nice to meet ya.”
Richard shook Bert’s hand again and watched the older man amble into the kitchen area.
He wandered back out to find Rod. I could never live a life like this, he thought.
When he walked into the forepeak, Rod was busy with the time sheets for the men. “I’m just
finishing up here, Richard. Usually my foreman does this, but he’s off with the flu. I have to bring these sheets back with me so the men can get paid.”
When Rod was finished, the two of them climbed aboard the truck. On the drive back down the narrow woods road they didn’t say much. Rod was thinking about the time sheets and Richard was trying to absorb what he saw.
He wondered how the loggers felt about things. Bert, the cookee, seemed satisfied enough, but Richard wondered how men could live like that. Then he remembered another place, a house with a dirt floor.
A few days later it came time for him and Audrey to leave. In Richard’s mind, the visit hadn’t been a great success and he blamed himself. He had felt awkward and out of place. The Andersons were kind and friendly, but he knew he was a city fellow and always would be.
Standing on the platform at the Badger station, he thanked the Andersons for their hospitality and invited them to St. John’s for a visit. Audrey hugged both her parents and, with Ruth dabbing at her tears, the young couple boarded the train. Richard had paid for two sleepers this time. Although Audrey was sad to be leaving her parents, she was excited at the thought of getting a sleeper.
For supper, Richard took Audrey to the dining car with its snow-white tablecloths and silver cutlery. They enjoyed a meal of pan-fried cod. When they finished their meal and the steward had served coffee, Audrey sat back and looked out at the landscape as it rushed past the windows. It was a beautiful evening and the couple lingered, watching the fading evening light. They hadn’t talked much; neither of them knew what to say.
Finally, Audrey put her cup back in the saucer. “Richard, what did you think of my parents and my home?”
“Oh, great. Great. Your folks are great, Audrey.” He looked out the window. I have to tell her, he thought. She thinks I am a glorified city fella, always used to the best. But I’m not. And she deserves to know.
“Richard, what is it? Was Badger that bad?”
“No, no, Audrey. I just felt I didn’t fit in there, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I have never cut down a tree or shot a moose.”
“We both knew, at least I knew, that the lifestyle back there is different.” She leaned across the table. “People who live outside St. John’s hardly know it exists. The city is like another world to the many small towns on this island.”
“Audrey, I love you and I would like for us to marry. If you’ll have me, that is.” Richard stopped and looked down into his coffee cup. He wanted to say more but couldn’t.
Audrey’s brow furrowed. “What is it, my dear? You must tell me what’s troubling you.”
Richard looked into her earnest young eyes. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Not now, my dear. Trust me on this. It’s not the time or place. But there’s something I need to show you and tell you, when we get back to St. John’s.” He finished his coffee and set his cup on the table. “Come on. Let’s go back to the sleeper car.”
Trustingly, Audrey tucked her hand into his arm as they left the dining car together.
The conductors had everything made up for the night. Audrey’s bunk was on the top, Richard’s on the bottom. After they were settled in, with the curtains pulled and the lights off, Richard crawled out and sneaked up into the sleeper with Audrey. He expected her to kick him out, but instead she opened her arms to kiss and cuddle him. Richard thought he was the luckiest man alive.
After a few kisses he lay back on the pillow and pulled her close to his heart. He felt he didn’t deserve this fine young woman, because he knew he hadn’t been open and honest with her. After awhile he could feel her deep breathing and knew she was asleep. He slipped quietly from her arms and went back to his own bunk, where he lay awake for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of the train’s wheels on the track.
16
As Christmas of 1952 approached, it was a miserable, quiet time for the Sullivan family. All were wrapped up in their grief, thinking of Mam and the twins up in the cemetery buried in the frozen ground.
On Christmas Eve, Jennie prepared a supper of boiled salt fish and homemade molasses raisin bread as Mam had done for years. They sat around the table, pushing more food around on their plates than actually went into their mouths.
Jennie looked around the table at her father and sisters. “Just look at us! Mam would be disgusted with us sitting here, moping about.” At the mention of Mam, Pap’s head came up and he looked across the table at her.
Jennie continued. “Mam always said dying is for the dying and living is for the living. We all know that life must go on. So let’s get ready and go to Midnight Mass, as Mam would want us to.”
Pap nodded his head in agreement. “I know you’re right, maid. Yes, we will go to Mass. We’ll need to get there early so we can sit up front just like your Mam used to do. Girls, help Jennie clean up from supper now. I’m going to get a shave.”
As the girls were washing dishes and Jennie swept the floor, a rap came to the door. Jennie left her sisters and went to open it. Standing on the step was Tom Hillier with his cap in his hands. It was snowing softly and, as he stood there, the flakes settled on his shoulders and in his hair. Jennie thought she would die. Her chest felt like she would never again get any air into it.
Jennie looked into Tom’s eyes for several long seconds. One of her sisters yelled from behind her. “Will ya close the door? You’re letting in a draft!”
Suddenly able to find her breath, Jennie said, “Tom, won’t you please come in.” She was surprised and proud of how calm she sounded, though she could hardly hear her own voice over her pounding heart.
“No, no, Jennie. I’ll drop by tomorrow. I just want to give you this tonight.” He took her hand and pressed into it a thin wrapped package. “I was real sorry to hear about your Mam.” With another searching look at her he turned and started to walk back down the path.
“Tom, wait . . .”
He turned and looked at her. “You looks good, Jennie.” Pulling his cap on over his head, he went on out in the snow to the railway tracks.
Shutting the outside door, Jennie went into the parlour and sat down on the settee. She was shaking so badly she could hardly open the package. It was clumsily wrapped in Christmas paper and Jennie could tell Tom had done it himself. Pap and the girls came in to watch her.
From the paper she pulled out a folded piece of blue cardboard tied with a ribbon. Jennie pulled open the ribbon and unfolded a legal document onto her lap.
She started to cry. “Oh God, oh Sacred Heart of Jesus!”
Her father, with one side of his face still lathered from shaving, came over to her and looked over her shoulder at the deed to a house – the house – made out in her name, Assumpta Jennifer Hillier, in a fancy script. She thought her head and heart would burst. Tom still loved her. Tom still loved her.
Later that evening, as she sat in the pew next to her father and sisters, Jennie held her handbag in her lap. Inside was the precious document to her house. She prayed to the Blessed Virgin that her marriage was about to begin again.
Jennie got up early on Christmas morning with one thought in her mind: perhaps today Tom would be back as he said he would. She looked out her bedroom window. Everything was blanketed in a coating of white, and the morning sky was a pale, frosty blue. It was going to be a good day; she could feel it in her bones. Her handbag was on the chair where she had laid it last night after Mass. Inside was the house deed. Jennie smiled. She felt that her mother was watching over her and helping her.
“Thank you Mam,” she whispered.
Phonse and his wife came over with their daughter Madeline and little five-year-old Bernie for Christmas dinner. In the parlour, they had set up the Christmas tree and Jennie smiled at Pap down on the floor playing with a train set he had gotten for the boy. It helped to have children in the house. The sisters cooked dinner, and although it wasn’t the happy, boisterous meal of years past, they all made the best of it.
Tom came by again in t
he afternoon and sat with them. He played with little Bernie, who by this time was strutting around wearing a pair of six-shooters, complete with red embossed holsters and real shooting caps. Tom and Bernie played Cowboys and Indians and Jennie couldn’t help but laugh at their antics. She thought that Tom was like a big kid himself. Bernie, crouched behind the table, yelled, “Bang, bang, you’re dead, fall down!” Tom obligingly rolled on the kitchen floor, clutching his chest and shouting, “I’m shot! I’m shot!” Jennie realized anew the preciousness of this man. And she remembered Mam saying that they’d have a child of their own. Please Mam, she prayed silently. Please ask God to make it happen.
When Tom went out to the porch to pull on his boots, Jennie went with him. They stood close, so close she could feel his breath on her forehead. She looked up at him and whispered, “Thanks for coming over today, Tom. And thanks for the Christmas present. I’m sorry that I have nothing to give you in return.”
“That’s all right. It was kind of a gift for both of us anyway. How about if I come and get you tomorrow and show you the house?” Tom chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. “We might even be able to discuss my gift then as well.” Jennie pushed him teasingly out the door, laughing for the first time since she couldn’t remember when.
On St. Stephen’s Day, or Boxing Day, Tom came shortly after breakfast and got Jennie. She bundled herself up and held his arm as they went to see their house together. She had not even seen the outside of the house that Tom had been building, never mind the inside. Jennie was that stubborn, no matter how curious she’d been. She hadn’t allowed herself to walk in on Halls Bay Road for a sly look. I will not look at it, she used to think. I will not. Supposing he is building it for someone else.
As they rounded the corner, he made her close her eyes and led her through the snow until she was standing directly in front of it. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in wonder.
The Badger Riot Page 12
