It had been too much for the young man. His full bladder let go – piss or urine, call it what you want. When the car banged down on the road, he couldn’t take any more. He felt the dreadful wet warmth as it spread out from his crotch and down one of his legs. Through the curtain of his misery, terror and shame, Cecil could smell vomit. It wasn’t his, thank God, so that meant that one of the guys in back had thrown up. Vomit’s worse than piss, isn’t it? He felt a bit better to know someone was suffering worse than him.
Vern had been screaming at them all. “You dirty bastards! Not fit to get in a car. Friggin’ animals are cleaner than you fellas.”
Cecil, overwhelmed with the noise and confusion, never knew how it happened, but somehow Vern had managed to escape. The men in the back seat said afterward that the taxi driver was as lucky as a shithouse rat.
But Cecil and the two men hadn’t been so lucky. Vern put them out on the A.N.D. Company office steps. They’d cried that he couldn’t leave them, certain they’d be killed before daylight. Vern had said that he didn’t give a fuck what happened to them – just get the hell out of the car. All three had tumbled out and the taxi roared off on three wheels into the night.
Cecil was shaking, too scared to know what to do. One man tried the A.N.D. Company office door. “Son of a bitch is locked up tighter than a virgin’s hole,” he said. “We’re leavin’, buddy. What you gonna do?” Cecil couldn’t answer; his thoughts jumbled around inside his head and his speech deserted him.
The Springdale men disappeared over among the A.N.D. Company warehouses and sheds. Cecil was left all alone.
He thought of the bad luck that had dogged him from the day that his mother had died. He thought that if life was no better than this, it was best to die or be killed and have it over with. He wanted to cry, but his stepmother always told him that only sissies cried.
He was jarred out of his jumbled thoughts by the presence of a woman. It was dark, about six or seven o’clock.
“Cecil? Is that you, my son? Where’d you come from?”
“Missus Annie,” he sobbed, and he couldn’t say any more. He wondered if God had sent her.
She took him by the arm and led him over the road to her house. His pissy brigs were stiff with the cold. They chafed his private parts as he stumbled along behind her.
Her kitchen was like a warm womb, and smelled of baking bread. Poor Cecil was shivering with cold and delayed shock. He clung to the woman’s arm like a small child. Missus Annie knew what needed to be done. She’d dealt with this young man before and she knew he couldn’t handle a lot of words at once. She handed him a pair of knitted underdrawers and a pair of worsted brigs and motioned to the back room. Cecil shambled inside.
He changed as fast as his shaking hands would allow. Forgetting his heap of soiled clothes on the floor, he went back out to the kitchen. That was another of Cecil’s problems: he often forgot things in the moment, but could recite dates and happenings from years and years ago.
Missus Annie had a lunch on the table for him: tea, fresh bread and butter, some cold meat. Bear meat, she said, as she sat opposite him and watched him eat ravenously.
“Are you a logger with the union, Cecil?”
“No, missus.”
“So you’re one of the other crowd then, what they calls scabs.”
Cecil concentrated on his steaming teacup, unable to look at Missus Annie’s eyes. He felt even more ashamed of himself than when he’d been pissing in his pants. Since his mother died, no woman had cared for him as this Mi’kmaq woman had. Cecil wished she was his mother, wished that he belonged to the close-knit Mi’kmaq community.
The door burst open. “Ma, ma, you’ll never believe what’s happened!” It was one of the Drum men. He saw Cecil and stopped. “Who the fuck are you?”
His mother shook her head and pulled her son into the other room, leaving Cecil alone to chew on his bear meat. Not that he had much appetite. He figured her son was a striker. Just wait until she tells him about me. I’m dead now, for sure.
The time when he was with Missus Annie for the infection in his leg, someone had told Cecil that she had twenty-two children. They said she had ten sons, but Cecil never learned their names and he didn’t know this one. After a few minutes, this son and Missus Annie came back to the kitchen. She laid her hand on Cecil’s shoulder. “My son thinks it would be best if he took you over to the railway station now,” she said. “You might hitch a ride on a freight train. You can hide under the station stand until one comes along.”
Cecil thanked Missus Annie. He wanted to hug her, but couldn’t get up the nerve to do so. In his mind she was the mother he’d lost, and he loved her. As he walked out to the road with her son, he could see her standing in the door, the lamplight silhouetting her short, round, motherly frame.
It was late, nine o’clock. By this time Badger was swarming with Mounties and Constabulary officers as they searched out fugitive strikers. Cecil barely had the strength to walk over the road with Missus Annie’s son. He was quaking with fear.
When they reached the railway station, Missus Drum’s son held out his hand for Cecil to shake. Cecil was grateful for the handshake. No one had ever held out their hand to him before. When their hands parted there was a two-dollar bill left in his. It came to Cecil’s mind that it might be the same two-dollar bill that he’d given Missus Annie back when she healed his leg. Before he could say anything, the Mi’kmaq turned and walked away. Cecil put the money down in the bottom of his boot. It was good money, enough to play pool for weeks.
The station platform was deserted. The nor’west wind was whipping down the tracks. It had been mild earlier, but the wind was up now. There was no freight train in sight. Cecil saw the dark hole under the station stand. He thought about it for a bit. He’d never liked dark places. They reminded him of his stepmother and the attic. But it was cold, and he was afraid that a cop or a logger might come by.
And it was dark. Cecil could hear breathing and snores and curses as he crawled in. Someone kicked him in the ribs – hard – when he almost knelt on him. After awhile, another body crawled in. Cecil kicked him as hard as he could, just because someone had kicked him.
He dozed off. Stepmother always said, “That stupid Cecil! He’d fall asleep in a snowbank.” If she only knew how true that was, but Cecil wasn’t about to let her or Father know about all this goings-on. All he wanted was to get through this night and see daylight.
Part III
THE RIOT
26
It’s been four days since Ruth left to go in to St. John’s. This hasn’t been too bad, I think. Ruth has been looking after my comforts for almost twenty-five years. I miss her, but after all, I am a grown, independent man. I can do this.
There’s nothing to keeping house; just wash a few dishes, maybe sweep up the floor. I can wash my own clothes when I get them dirty. The clothes that I have on I’ve only been wearing for five days, and there’s hardly a peck on ’em. I think women washes clothes too much anyway. Something for them to do, I guess.
There’s no point in me going upstairs to sleep in our bed. That would only dirty up the sheets unnecessarily. And yes, I have to admit, it would be too lonely in that bed without Ruth. I’ll get that quilt again, and a pillow, and make up a bunk on the daybed by the kitchen stove. Ruth will never know. I’d have it all put away on the day she comes home.
I’ll keep myself busy all day long. “A man’s work is never done, though he toils from sun to sun.” That was my father’s favourite quote. There’s some firewood to be sawed up, cleaved into junks and stacked in the woodshed. The felt on my roof has come loose on the corner. Won’t be any good if Ruth comes home to a leaky roof! First thing she’ll ask is what I’ve been doing all the while she was gone.
I get my ladder and climb up on the roof, nail the loose piece down with felt nails and smear some tar over it to keep the wet out. It’s a mild day, the first mild day of the year. The sun has the power now, as my father used
to say, and when it’s shining down on the roof felt it is warm enough to spread a bit of tar. No good trying to spread tar in cold weather.
I wake up next morning to a cold kitchen. The damn oil stove is not lit anymore and the house is cold. It must have gone out several hours ago. The tank is full of oil, so there must be something in the line. This happens every now and then. I tinker with it, taking apart the oil line, spilling oil on the linoleum. I’ll have to clean that up later. All of this, before I have my breakfast, only serves to make me cranky. I say a few choice swear words, guiltily enjoying the sound of them in my empty house. Sure enough, in the copper tubing I find a little piece of bark. “Blood of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.
So I put the damn oil line back onto the damn stove, relight it and boil the kettle. Our icebox has eggs and bacon, but that’s too much trouble. The frying pan is still in the sink anyway, dirty from yesterday. So I forage around in the cupboard and get a half dozen Purity Jam Jams and that, with tea, is breakfast. My hands stink of stove oil, but I am halfway through the tea and Jam Jams before I notice it. I glance at the calendar. It’s Tuesday, March the tenth.
As I sit there in the quiet, sipping my tea, I miss Ruth even more. If she were here now she would be bustling about the kitchen, fussing over me, making sure I had enough to eat. But most of all I miss her next to me at night. I heave a big sigh, take my cup over to the sink and add it to the pile of dirty dishes. I’ll get around to washing them sometime before she comes home.
As I go out the door, I remember that I never wiped up the stove oil that dripped out of the line. There’s a puddle on the floor behind the stove. Well, I’m not going back now. Bad luck to do that; everyone knows that it’s bad luck to go back in the house right after you leave.
I go down to the A.N.D. Company garage. It’s a mild March morning. The sun is glinting off the snowbanks as I stroll down Church Road. It’s a relatively short street compared to High Street in Grand Falls or Water Street in St. John’s. It might be a mile long and is arrow-straight. Residents say it’s built on an old Beothuk trail.People who come here always comment on the big twenty- or thirty-foot trees that line it. These stately trees probably looked down on the Beothuk as they look down on the goings-on today. Along the sides of the road the houses are well-built; most have white picket fences. Also on the street are three fine solid churches, which give the road its name. The United Church is at the southeast end, the Roman Catholic in the middle, and the Pentecostal toward the northwest end.
As I walk down the road, over on the left-hand side I see a crowd of men over by Mrs. Noel’s house. They seem to be just milling about, having a smoke. The IWA rented the house a few months ago for loggers to stay during the strike. They’re all strangers to me, so I just keep on my way. A couple of police cars pass by slowly and, although I don’t know them either, I put my hand up to them hoping I look friendly. They seem to be keeping an eye on the Noel house and ignore me as they go by.
First, I head over to the forge shed. I need to get the blacksmith to make runner chains for my tractor and extras to take up in the woods with us. I while away an hour or more chatting to Jack Travers, the blacksmith, and to a couple of other men that come by. When Jack goes for his lunch I bid him goodbye, telling him I need to head up to the garage to check on the tractors. Old Jack says, “Rod b’y, you are one busy man. No one can say that you won’t be ready for the haul-off when it comes – if it comes.”
I head out the door feeling pretty good about myself as I trot on over to the A.N.D. Company property. The boys are working away in the garage. They have the big garage door pulled up this morning to let in the fresh air and sunshine, and a couple of them are working on my tractor. Abe Miller, who manages transport for the Company, is there too, fixing the track on his Bombardier.
“Hey boys, how’s it going?” I ask as I saunter up to them.
Abe turns his face away from his labours and looks up at me. “Hey there Rod, my son. Is there much on the go up your way this morning?” Abe lives in on Halls Bay Road.
“Yeah, I saw a lot of men up by the Noel house as I was walking down the road. Nice few police around too. Looks like more than yesterday. Maybe they sent out more from St. John’s.”
One of the mechanics speaks up. “That should never be happening. Dem police got no business out here in Badger. This little town is in some friggin’ mess with all the goings-on here.”
The men talk together for awhile. I’ve used this downtime to get some general maintenance done on the tractor, and the mechanics are doing a good job with it. A few days ago I gave the head mechanic a bottle of rum on the sly and asked him if he could put me up first. And that’s what he did. They replaced the fuel pump and the engine sleeves. There were repairs as well, to the final drive. They even replaced the track pads. The old tractor will be ready to go whenever this strike is over.
I spend the better part of the afternoon there helping Abe and chatting with the boys.
Around three o’clock, a Mountie car pulls up and from out of the back swaggers the Company manager. He’s flanked by two Mounties. He never goes anywhere these days without police protection.
“Time to finish up, men. We need you all to secure this place,” says the manager. “We’re securing all Company property. The situation in this town is a bit dangerous right now.” I look at the faces of the two tall Mounties with him and they look pretty serious.
Without a word, the mechanics put away their tools, pull down the garage door, and the manager locks up. The mechanics walk on over to the A.N.D. Company staff house where they’re staying. The Mounties and the manager climb back in the police car. Abe asks them if he can get a ride home to Halls Bay Road. They offer me a ride too, but I tell them I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I like to walk. I put my hand up to them, then continue to head back up Church Road alone.
As I walk, I can see that there seems to be quite a lot more activity going on than there was this morning. There are dozens of people streaming past me – loggers, women and children. A man I don’t know runs by me yelling, “Come on b’y, get a move on. We’re going to block the road to Millertown.”
I guess he thinks I’m one of the loggers.
I suppose I don’t actually look much different from a logger or, I suppose, a striker now. I wear the same kind of clothes: rough pants, wool socks, logans. My sweater might be a bit better quality and my coat might be warmer, but not outstandingly so. I am a contractor, but you don’t see me in a suit, white shirt and tie. No sir, not Rod Anderson. I’ve always been a part of the men who work for me.
It has been a restless day for me. As the priest of a busy parish, it’s strange for me not to have administrative duties anymore. The school is closed, the nuns are gone.
In the morning, I walk around Badger, now a cheerless place, strangers everywhere, the mood dangerous and ugly. This usually quiet, snow-blanketed little town looks ill-used and invaded.
There’s a big police presence, more than previously. It looks like their numbers have swelled overnight. Some of them nod to me or tip their cap. There is no attempt at conversation. The officers look uncomfortable and out of place. Government has plunked them down in a place that doesn’t have any setup to house and feed them. They’ve had to bunk in Grand Falls, eighteen miles away over a slippery, snow-covered gravel road.
Joey Smallwood has decertified the IWA, calling them foreigners and white slave traders. The Bishop has advised me to keep quiet on all issues. All right for him to say; he doesn’t live here. He said not to show support to the loggers. Clergy all over the island have swung toward Joey in recent days. The battle is indeed lost.
After lunch I decide to go out and open up the church. Someone might need to pray or talk and I feel I should be available. Some ladies come in, bless themselves with holy water, genuflect to the altar, light candles and kneel to pray. I go down by the door so I can speak with them on their way out.
“Good afternoon, ladies. How are you doing tod
ay?”
“We’re on our way up to the Buchans Road picket line, Father. We have to be there to support our men, you know.”
“And you came to pray?” I know they are loggers’ wives; the famous ladies of the picket lines.
“Yes, Father, we needs all the prayers we can get. May God protect our men this evening.”
After they go, I pray awhile, read the scripture, straighten the altar a bit, but mostly I have one ear cocked to the shouts and screams out on the street. I want to lock up and go check it out, but something tells me that I should have the church open for anyone who might have need of a sanctuary. If ever a place of peace and calm was needed, it is now.
My house, the Anderson house, which has been in our family for three generations, is about three-quarters of the way up Church Road. As I approach, I can see a police bus parked by my front gate. Across the street, where the little side road crosses the track, there’s another bus and two police cars. Everywhere, black coats of the Constabulary are moving around.
The scene puts me on edge, maybe because my son-in-law belongs to this same police force. They stand around, straight as arrows, with their fur hats on their heads. They’re not attempting to stop anyone going up the road and I guess they’re just there waiting for orders.
I walk over to my gate and stand there with my back to my house, looking around. People run past me. I see Alf Elliott’s young girl, Amanda, and some of her friends skirt around the black coats and head up the road. I remember my daughter Audrey used to babysit her years ago. Children sure grow up fast. The Hatcher boys clamber over the back of their father’s fence, taking a shortcut through the snowy gardens. They’re on their way to join the crowd of people up by the church. It’s close to four o’clock, with an hour or so of daylight left in the sky.
The Badger Riot Page 21
