A Season for Miracles

by Jean Little

  I warned her about the tunnels and trestle bridges, hoping she might be afraid of heights, or suffer from claustrophobia.

  Her reply to that? She’s “fit as a fiddle.”

  To prove it, she increased the pace. “Do you think I enjoy being cooped up indoors? I’ve been longing to get out. But your weather is frightful!”

  The conversation then took an unexpected turn. “You must think me a relentless taskmaster, if not an ogre,” she said — I could hardly disagree — “but old habits die hard.”

  She told me that she’d had to be tough, being married to a sea captain who was away for months at a time. She’d had to be stern, raising five sons and three daughters on her own. She’d expected — no, demanded — the utmost from her children.

  “You and Tobias must take me as you find me,” she said. “but that doesn’t mean you’re to accept everything I say. Not without a challenge!”

  By then I was getting quite stirred up, and ready to take her on, but she wasn’t finished. She said she was longing for a good debate, some intellectual stimulation. “If you disagree with what I say — and I know you do — argue with me! You know this colony better than I do — stand up for it! Stand up for your dripping wet wilderness and your backwater town! If you’d rather not do that, then you can ignore me as a tedious old grouch.”

  So I took her at her word. I put up an exceedingly fine argument for Yale, and for our railway, and for Canada. I forgot Mama’s advice and told her about my work at the newspaper office, and how I wanted to grow up to be a reporter. I also told her that I liked having the spiked oranges in my bedroom, and had a good mind to hang them back up.

  She wasn’t the least bit afraid in the tunnel. When we reached the middle, we yelled “Merry Christmas” at the top of our lungs. I can still hear the echo.

  LESSON LEARNED: Never judge a person until you hear their side of the story.

  Sunday, December 23

  Andrew is home! Half the town was at the landing to greet friends and relatives getting off the boat, and it took a while before he could reach us.

  “You’re the spitting image of your Grandfather Forrest!” Grandma said, and almost knocked him over with her bone-crushing hug.

  I’d meant to warn him, but never had the chance.

  Monday, December 24

  10:00 p.m. and not a creature is stirring. Except for me.

  I’ve let Sheba inside, secretly, and she’s sleeping by the kitchen stove, worn out, like everyone else, by all the Christmas excitement.

  It’s wonderful to have Andrew home. We heard all about his time in Victoria and asked hundreds of questions, even about things we already knew from his letters, just to listen to him talk. For once, Grandma Forrest couldn’t get a word in edgewise!

  After lunch we tramped up the hill to cut down our Christmas tree. Mama stayed behind with Mary, but Grandma insisted on coming — and managed to keep up! Even though the trail was “too steep” and the wind “too cold for a civilized being.”

  “This isn’t cold!” I argued. “And it’s only a breeze!” That set us off on a debate over the meaning of wind, and the real definition of cold, with Papa and the boys joining in.

  We’d taken two sleds up the hill, one for the tree, and the other for Grandma. Toby and I rode down with her, Toby steering and Grandma sitting between us. She screamed the whole way — but loved it!

  Or so she claimed. She may have been too cold and breathless to say anything more.

  After we came home we decorated the tree and put up some fresh cedar boughs and holly.

  Andrew hung a bit of mistletoe he’d brought back from Victoria, and Mama and Papa were the first to try it out.

  Tuesday, December 25

  What a houseful of merry-makers and jolly Christmas spirits! Not only was our family gathered round the dining room table, but the Schroeders as well — Rusty, Clara and their parents. They even brought Callie to be company for Sheba, although the dogs had to stay outside.

  The highlight of Christmas dinner was the plum pudding, and Mama let ME do the finishing touches. I plunged it into boiling water as soon as we came home from church, so it would stay hot. Then, when the time came, I turned it out of the mould, placed a sprig of holly in the middle, and poured brandy around it. Toby got to light it, but I had the honour of carrying it to the table — a gorgeous pudding, encircled in flame.

  I was so proud. My face was burning from the compliments, and not just from the excitement of having Rusty sitting across from me.

  Then came the test. Mama served the pudding and gave her usual warning about not biting on a charm, while I passed round the hard sauce. My heart was thumping with nervousness as I watched everyone take their first taste. What if I’d mixed up salt for sugar? It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  But it was grand! “The best plum pudding I’ve ever tasted!” Mama said, and I was regaled with another round of compliments, even from Grandma Forrest.

  What with the fire in the grate and the number of burning candles — as well as all the attention setting me aflame — I was about to excuse myself and splash water on my face when Grandma gave an alarming cough.

  “Goodness me! That was close!” She held up the charm she had almost swallowed and, with a boisterous laugh, said, “There’s an obituary for your newspaper, Kathleen: She led a charmed life.”

  Groans and laughter followed.

  Then Toby burst out, “It’s Kate’s ring!”

  Grandma wiped it with her napkin and took a closer look. “So it is!” she said. “However did it end up in the pudding?”

  I was too relieved to care.

  Now I’m thinking that Toby might have done it on purpose. He was paying very close attention as people were eating their pudding … and he could easily have dropped it into the batter when I wasn’t looking. I know I’d taken it off, as I always do when working in the kitchen.

  I won’t confront him though. Because then I’d have to kill the fiend!

  Besides, I’m not angry. The ring is back on my finger, I found the good luck horseshoe in my pudding, and Rusty gave me a Christmas kiss. Secretly, under the mistletoe.

  Thursday, January 3, 1884

  Saw Andrew off this afternoon. There is so much ice moving down the river, the steamboats have stopped running. So he had to go in Captain Bristol’s canoe, along with the mail and two other passengers. What an Adventure!

  Now Grandma’s moving her things into Andrew’s bedroom so I can have my room back. HURRAY!!!

  Can’t wait to go back to school on Monday.

  Monday, January 7

  The nicest thing happened after school today. Grandma was upstairs rocking Mary to sleep, and Mama was alone in the kitchen. We sat down over a cup of tea and talked, just the two of us. It felt like old times.

  “Things will get better,” she said. “I know how you feel — the chores and all — but I couldn’t have managed without you.” She told me I’d have much more time to myself with Grandma here, and by the time Grandma left in the spring, Mama would have regained her energy.

  We talked straight through until suppertime, about mothers and daughters and everything.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed Mama since Mary was born. Even though she hasn’t been away.

  And tomorrow, now that the weather has cleared, Rusty is taking me sleighing!!! This is starting out to be a Very Good Year.

  Having lived through a brutal winter on the eastern shore of Newfoundland, Sophie has moved to a community farther south, several days sail from the tiny fishing outpost of Mairie’s Cove.

  Small Beginnings

  Tuesday, December 25, 1722

  Christmas Day. In Trinity, Newfoundland — where I did not expect to be.

  After lunch

  I have had A BRILLIANT IDEA. It came to me as I was picking up my pen to write in this book which Uncle Thaddeus made sure I would get as a Christmas present. All set in a pretty cloth bag.

  Uncle Thaddeus se
nt the book on the last sack ship, with other things for us. I knew about those but I did not know about this. Mama and Papa saved it without telling me AND they remembered to give it to me after all the months had passed.

  The IDEA is that I will teach Tamsin to read and write to thank her for helping me with the cooking and the water fetching and the fire tending and all the other tasks that I would otherwise have to do by myself so that Mama and Papa and I might live here.

  I showed her my book as we were waiting for the Christmas prayer service — which was held at Mr. John Downs’s store. Mr. Downs the Younger read the prayers because even here — where there are at least twenty families who are settled and who stay through the winter — there is still no vicar and no church.

  Tamsin admired the cloth bag very much. She also admired the book’s cover. Then she looked inside. As soon as she saw the inscription Uncle Thaddeus had made for me she shut the book up tight.

  I knew she could not read or write. But I had not thought about it upsetting her. I hope that teaching her will be a VERY GOOD GIFT.

  Yesterday we went together and collected pine boughs. We got them from the trees along the track which is there to get from one cove to the other. Because Trinity is made of two coves whereas Mairie’s Cove had only one.

  Tamsin’s big brother, Abel, cut the boughs down for us. Once we had brought them in Papa tried to help us arrange them. Unfortunately, he made knots in the twine for hanging the boughs up. I think he will never be good at doing such useful things.

  Mama, of course, was busy with her painting. She is always busy with her painting. When she is not out and about, walking everywhere all over, looking for new things to draw.

  The pine boughs smell very Christmassy. I like their greenness. We put them mostly around the doors.

  Tamsin is not here today. I have said that on Christmas Day she should be with her family and that is where she has stayed.

  Probably I should put that in Trinity our home is really quite a lot more like a house. Although it is still made of logs. It has three rooms. Mama insisted upon it. Although she seems no longer to mind that we eat where I am cooking. And where I also sleep.

  The logs are set side by side in the ground so they are upright. There are also logs for the floor which is much, much better than just having earth as we did in our fishing tilts at Mairie’s Cove.

  Evening

  Mr. Downs the Younger had Mama and Papa and me come to Christmas dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins were there also. We ate roast goose, which was very good. Mr. Jenkins is to run the shipbuilding business that Mr. John Downs is planning. I should explain more about this. Mr. John Downs is the one who was Uncle Thaddeus’s friend and who helped us when we first came here. He has returned to Poole, leaving Mr. Downs the Younger — who is his son — in charge of all.

  Their store is not very big as yet. In fact, it is really just a room where there are supplies such as those who live here may need. There is also a fire to be warm and a space where people may gather. Papa spends most of his time there. He goes in the morning and comes home only to eat. That is because at the store he can play his fiddle without annoying Mama. People come also to listen. Mr. Downs the Younger says this is “good indeed for trade.”

  Trade is important. Even today there was much talk of how “ere long” Trinity will be a great centre and how the Downses’s “premises” will play their part. Papa joined in most enthusiastically although Mama did not.

  “Great things from small beginnings,” Mr. Downs the Younger said.

  Mr. Downs the Younger did not cook the dinner. That was done by his servant. Her name is Shauna and she is Irish. There are quite a number of servants in Trinity. When it comes to Tamsin, “servant” is a word that I would never use.

  What a lot to tell! My fingers ache with writing so much after all this time. Perhaps I will stop. Only I do so want to say that I am thinking about Little Mairie and Thomas and the others from Mairie’s Cove. Katherine and Peg especially.

  I have said Christmas prayers for them already. Before I sleep, I will say Christmas prayers for them again.

  Wednesday, December 26, 1722

  I am SHOCKED. Tamsin came to work with me again today. When I told her about my gift she was most excited. She said she would like to start learning as soon as she could.

  I wished to ensure I would have all that is required for her instruction. I went to Mr. Downs the Younger to be certain he had stock of paper and quills and ink. He asked why I had need of such things. I told him my plan to give Tamsin lessons.

  He looked at me most severely. He said such tools are not for the “lower orders.” And anyway, those of the “common masses” — such as she is — cannot learn.

  I reminded him — most politely — that Uncle Thaddeus had made an arrangement to make certain Mama and Papa and I might get what we needed. He replied that, since I am BUT A CHILD, it was for him to be certain Uncle Thaddeus’s money be not spent “in frivolous pursuits.”

  I was so angry I had to leave VERY quickly.

  Does he not know that Tamsin is the first friend who is a girl and who is of my own age that I have ever had IN MY WHOLE LIFE?

  Thursday, December 27, 1722

  I will not be VANQUISHED. If Mr. Downs the Younger will not give me paper, I will use the end of this book. Tamsin can start at the back and I will continue with my writing from the front. She can use MY ink and quills.

  I had hoped she would be able to practise at home, but because Mr. Downs the Younger objects to my idea we must keep the lessons a secret.

  Tamsin is another part of Uncle Thaddeus’s arrangement. For coming here she is paid in supplies that Mr. Downs the Younger must give her. Tamsin has many brothers and sisters. The supplies matter a great deal.

  Still she is very determined. (She is also very pretty. She has lovely black hair.)

  Last night, the janneys came. Tamsin kept telling me that after Christmas they would. They might not have stopped at our house. That is because — although I do my best to keep to my vow that always I would treat everyone the same — in Trinity it is not so easy. People do not treat me the same. Some people are shy with me. I think also they are a little frightened of Mama. Anyway, as soon as I heard the janneys I opened the door. Papa joined in with the janneys’ fiddler. Right there — in the darkness — the janneys danced.

  There were ten of them, I think. They were all dressed up in disguise. The disguise is the whole point, so Tamsin says. I recognized Abel because around his head he had a shawl which Tamsin sometimes wears. There were others too that I thought I might know from the parts of their faces I could see.

  I did not call out any guesses. The janneys must come in before you can do that. When the dancing was over, they all of them jumped and shouted. I am writing now quickly because it is after supper and I am listening for their sounds.

  Friday, December 28, 1722

  Tomorrow we will start the writing lessons. Today I concerned myself with drawing lines at the end of my book. I walked with Tamsin to her home too because I had need of being out. I talked to Tamsin’s mother and held Tamsin’s baby brother, who reminds me of Little Mairie the way he pulls my hair.

  Perhaps I should explain that Tamsin’s father is a fisherman. Not all of the men here are. Some of them are planters. The planters are people who own more than one fishing boat and have other people to work for them. Tamsin’s father works for Mr. Philip Smith — I think Mr. Smith would call him a servant. The Smiths live closest to Mama and Papa and me.

  Tamsin’s parents are from around Poole. In that, they are as I am. Tamsin was born here. She says her father told her that for the men to go janneying house to house “be an old, old custom.” I wonder why I never heard of janneys at Deer Park. Or perhaps I can guess.

  Tamsin talks to me as we work together. That is how I know much of what is going on. Today as we were mixing bread dough, she told me that after Christmas the men will go into the woods. They will cut logs to be r
eady for repairing and remaking the flakes and stages for next fishing season. She says that of all the cutters, her father is the best.

  Saturday, December 29, 1722

  I had forgotten that learning to write is hard. Even for someone who is really clever, as Tamsin is. She did not get even get finished with A, which I had written at the top of the page for her to copy.

  She pressed too hard. She made blots. She went home most discouraged. I did not tell her how Mistress Tyler used to rap my knuckles for such things.

  We can write only at the end of the day when supper is cooking and there is nothing left that must be done. Tamsin is most insistent. I would like her to stay longer, but she cannot. She has too many chores to do at home.

  Tamsin will need many pages. I see I must make my own writing shorter. I see that this book is far too small.

  Sunday, December 30, 1722

  We had Sunday prayers at Mr. John Downs’s store as usual. This is for the people who are of the Church of England. The Irish people who are here and who are Papists, of course, must pray elsewhere.

  When I saw Mr. Downs the Younger holding the prayer book, my anger against him made me want to rush and snatch it from his hands.

  I thought of how my prayer book has been such a VERY GREAT comfort to me. I thought of how he would wish to ensure that Tamsin be prevented from learning to read as I do. I had to pray harder because I knew that God would not be pleased with me.

  Monday, December 31, 1722

  Tamsin did a perfect A. We were both so happy I made toast and molasses for us to eat. I often do make extra because I am not sure that Tamsin always has enough.

  All day the boys have been piling wood up on the beach. Here too we will have a New Year’s fire.

  Tuesday, January 1, 1723

  I will not wait three months until the legal New Year to change the year number. I have decided here in this new village, I will do it now.