by Darrell Duke
“Oh, yes, b’y, ’bout the time the priest hit poor Harb,” she says.
“Always time for a quick story, Charlie, b’y,” Jack says, pretending to be interested in a tale he could deliver word for word himself, if only he was allowed.
“’Twas after school one day,” Lize begins, “when meself and me sister, Kate, were walkin’, linked into Harb, see, an’ we met the priest comin’ up the road. We laughed an’ carried on, with Harb makin’ fun of this wan an’ that wan. When he neared us, the priest, see, he struck poor Harb right in the face . . .”
“Go on, girl,” Charlie says with a face to match his disgust.
“Yes,” says Lize, “for havin’ the cheek to show such disrespect in public; an unmarried man carryin’ on in such reckless fashion in the company of two unmarried women, he said. He let on he didn’t know we were the wan family, mind, so he said by ’n by.”
“What became of it, Mrs. Lize?” Charlie asks.
“Well, b’y, poor Harb wrote the archbishop, tellin’ ’bout what the priest was after doin’, and Harb was satisfied when the archbishop wrote back sayin’ Harb had like to hit ’im back. At least that’s what Harb always said,” Lize laughs.
“’Magine!” Charlie says, shaking his head.
“Yes, ’magine,” Jack mocks. “And Lize, Charlie, b’y, she frets over keepin’ a bit of wood in the church for the like of them.”
“Now, Jack, b’y, be quiet, will ya? ’Tis not like ’twas Fadder Dee,” Lize says, shaking her head.
Everyone in Fox Harbour has an obligation to God, and the closest thing to God in Fox Harbour is the priest when he visits twice a year.
“We can like it or lump it, as poor auld Mother used to say,” Lize says.
Father Dee, the priest, lives in Argentia, his precious time divided among the many communities scattered from hell to high water this end of Placentia Bay. Once in summer and again in winter he makes his way to Fox Harbour, and it will soon be time for him to be making his rounds again.
Not much can be done in winter to boost the visual appreciation of the priest’s coming, but now that it’s August month, when everything is in bloom, the offerings in honour of his arrival come in a variety of natural colours for decoration. Fresh flowers picked from gardens, marshes, and the roadside sit in vases and jugs adorning the best tablecloths on kitchen tables and in parlours, reserved for important events, like the priest’s visit, and wakes. The flowers send lovely fragrances throughout every home. Some have even gone as far as to make up wild bouquets and hang them on fences. Youngsters will soon be groomed half to death, scrubbed red raw, and told to stay clean because you never know what time Father will be by.
“God help ’im this time if he comes out of the room after his nap an’ complains ’bout the bit of lint on his pants,” Lize says, rolling her eyes.
Because she still feels compelled to lug wood to the church to keep the damp and mustiness at bay, Jack says it’s the pure heights of foolishness.
“Not like they can get cauld in them long getups they wears,” Jack mocks. “Not to mention they can afford a drop of the good stuff to keep warm.”
“Ah, Jack, b’y, mind yer mout’,” Lize says. She tosses her head, looks at Charlie, and rolls her eyes toward Jack.
Charlie’s too quiet to say what might be on his mind.
Most women and men of the harbour are busy recounting their sins since the priest’s visit last Christmas. In the back of their minds, their young ones keep a sufficient list of familiar lies, memorized to spit out in order in the confession box.
Father Dee, with his lean figure and the redness of high blood pressure dancing about his face, is their conduit to the Almighty. He’ll soon be dishing out the familiar host of beatings to those whose names the teacher has written down for defiance of both the Lord and the law during school last year. The fear of God will be smeared across the faces of the young ones, and after a few “Sorry Fadders” and a handful of Hail Marys they’ll be right back outdoors resuming their chores and games of summer sport. With sore arses and boxed ears right full of all the reasons blasphemers like them will never see heaven, they’ll pick up where they left off and never mention it again. Until the next time.
But the priest’s visit is a week away and there’s lots else for Lize to worry about now. She’s busy with her housework and outside tasks that have no end. Not unlike most married women in the harbour, she carries a bundle of mental burdens, and afternoon conversation with neighbours and company between things to do is liable to go in either direction, good or bad. She only tells the one about the priest and Herb out of boredom, when there’s no news. And no news is often good news around here.
“I got a good wan for ya, Charlie,” Lize says, sitting in her rocker, waiting for the potatoes to boil. “More tea, Charlie?”
“Just as well, me dear,” Charlie says, standing bent over and leaning toward her with his empty cup.
“’Tis just like yesterday we sailed over to Li’l Placentia,” she begins. “Get out of that, Jack! You’ll ruin me bread!” she says, waving the dishrag to shoo him away from peeking under the quilt at the dough in rise.
Bernadette, Jack and Lize’s youngest child, comes into the kitchen and sits on the dark brown wooden chair by the stove, waiting to hear the story she, too, could tell herself, if only she was allowed to open her mouth.
“’Twas a munt before Christmas, eighteen ninety-five. Jack just straightened up the bill wit’ H’aly’s. We could hardly afford a weddin’, but everyone else managed, and so could we. We never figured we’d have much, but wit’ family and friends, sure, we’d get by, same as the rest.”
On account of the parish covering most of this side of Placentia Bay, with just one priest serving all the communities, it was suitable for the priest and anyone getting married to have a ceremony in Little Placentia.
“Usually people from here went by dory, but a load of new rope an’ twine arrived at Keats’s Wharf, and Healys were sendin’ their big schooner over, the Queen of Providence. I thought ’twas something shockin’ havin’ to cross the water in a big auld dirty divil of a boat on our weddin’ day, but ’twas easy passage for us. Sure, me own mother, she said a spinster like me had no ch’ice but to accept whatever came me way and I was lucky to be gettin’ married at all at twenty-four years of age. ’Magine, now!”
Small growlers drifted in and out the bay, scraping the mouth of the harbour, but they were no match for the Queen of Providence.
“Jack’d just as soon have waited a couple of more munts, but no way was I helpin’ to lug a dory over ice pans, ’fraid I’d fall in an’ catch me death.
“Kate, and Martin, Jack’s best man, see, went wit’ us. And Skipper Bill King was at the wheel.”
“Yes, b’y, she was a dandy sight, the auld Queen, anchored in the lee of Little Placentia harbour, hove to in the light wind,” Jack recalls, anxious to have a little part in the telling of the story.
“Keats’s Wharf was big an’ dirty, see, much worse than it is now,” Jack goes on, “an’ Lize dreaded every step it took t’ get clear of it. Barrels of mackerel lined the walkway headin’ off the wharf and ya wouldn’t know if they were gonna come alive and jump out at her, the way she was gettin’ on.”
“I remember that auld wharf, Jack, ’deed I do,” Charlie adds. “The old fellas with the big beards and worn woollen sweaters coilin’ stiff manila around their great big hands an’ arms. I used to be frightened t’ death to look at ’em when I was a young fella. But they were the best kind. Come straight from Ireland, most of them, when they were lads, escapin’ the Famine.”
“Yes, b’y, men don’t come like they did one time, big like that,” Jack says.
“No, I tell ya,” Charlie agrees.
“No, and women mustn’t have come like us, neither, the way they were gawkin’ at
us,” Lize laughs.
“Now, Mrs. Lize, everyone knows there’s no beauties like Fox Harbour beauties,” Charlie says shyly.
“’Twas enough to skin ya,” Lize remembers, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were still cold, not reacting to Charlie’s sweetness, and anxious to take back the part of storyteller.
“I carried me dress folded in half over one arm,” she says, “an’ balanced me step with the other.”
“The horse and cart tracks in the road, see, were after hardenin’ on account of the frost,” Jack interrupts, “but there was still ’nough dirt to spile her dress, see, if she had to slip an’ fall.”
Lize shoots Jack a dirty look, as if to say shut up, while Jack eyes the pipe and tobacco he put back on the sideboard should another quick escape to the shed be required.
“Meself, Kate, and Cousin Mary Anne Meade from Little Placentia were right giddy wit’ excitement, and headed upstairs to get me into me cauld dress and veil. To be sure, be the time we got downstairs, Jack, Martin, and Uncle John were well on ’er to the kitchen table, nippin’ at Uncle John’s moonshine. I remember the church . . . ’twas no warmer than out be the door,” Lize says, hugging herself again. “An’ the crowd blowin’ their bret on their hands an’ stirrin’ to keep warm.”
“Yes,” Jack interrupts again, “Fadder S’n John was to a christenin’ on Red Island an’ wasn’t long back, see, an’ he askin’ the biverin’ crowd what they were all carryin’ on about, see.”
“Yes,” Lize says, slying her eyes at Jack again. “And everyone knew he’d been in the cuddy of H’aly’s boat, Revels, wit’ a lovely heat from the Queenie stove.” She goes on, tossing her head back in disgust, “The smell of whisky from his breath cut through the cauld like, like I don’t know what. An’ he lettin’ on he was cauld himself, but he never codded us, no sir, ’deed he never.”
“The potatoes are b’ilin’, Lize, girl,” Jack interrupts.
“’Twas a grand story, Mrs. Lize,” Charlie says, laying his empty cup on the table next to Jack. “I must go over and get me barrel of cods heads from the Annie Healy.”
Lize is glad to have a story or two from their past. Now, almost thirty-two years later, so much has changed. That day will always be a nice time to consider, something she and Jack bring up when there’s little else to say, or to help dim their worst memories when they come to light.
Mostly, after all these years, Jack has been fishing from the schooner Annie Healy, and for the longest time now he’s been the eldest of the crew. John Mullins, the captain, didn’t say much last week when Jack told him he wouldn’t be going back to sea. Jack has been saying that for ages, and the fact he hasn’t missed hardly an hour helping out around the boat since hasn’t gone unnoticed, either. Jim King and Mon McCue from the crew told Jack he was off his head and asked what do he think he’ll do without fishing. His willingness to help make the schooner ready for leaving is respected, whether he stays or goes.
Chapter two
Annie Healy
Anne Healy Furlong stands in the front garden of the house where she grew up, breathing air familiar to her lungs. Her eyes take in the load of activities embracing Fox Harbour this morning. The sun, hot on her face, and the air, fresher than she’s used to in the city, is soothing to her soul. Shadows of clouds cross the sun and distract her momentarily, revealing distressed faces in the craggy rock walls of the Crow Hill.
Looking back to the scene below, she can’t help but smile. Provisions for a fishing trip are carried by pairs of men using handcarts usually reserved for transporting fish to and from the flakes and capelin and kelp to vegetable gardens in once-rocky meadows above the road. Now and then, men stop to guzzle bottles of homemade beer to ward off the thirst. Other supplies brought to Healy’s Wharf by horse and cart are checked by knowing, accountable hands and sent to their appropriate destinations. Some materials are loaded into trap skiffs and dories tied up to bigger boats around the wharf. They are brought out to two big schooners anchored farther out in the harbour, in deeper water. Empty barrels for bait are rolled up splintery wooden planks and onto the deck of the Annie Healy, the only schooner small enough to haul up alongside the wharf at high tide.
Murray’s Island looks smaller than ever, wrapped in dark blue salt water. Gulls of every size and variety cover the handful of rocks left above the sea. Smooth waves wash past the gulls and the water sweeps quickly, almost silently, along the thick grass of the banks. Long, black rats scurry through the wet grass to higher ground.
Before Anne’s eyes meet the crowd at the wharf, they are drawn to the potpourri of colours adorning the plant life rimming the sea. She loves flowers. Daisies are smiling at the sun. Clover, some still purple and some dying and brown, lie about in clustered beauty. Buttercups glow. Yellow hawkweed in great bunches, and others standing alone, are surrounded by small rocks. Deadman’s daisies are backed by the flowing sea while timothy hay, used for feeding cows and horses, reaches tall and bends charmingly with the gentle wind.
The sea stops for nothing. It moves along heavily, washing the big rocks of the shore until reaching beneath the wooden bridge that joins both sides of the harbour where the ocean meets the brook.
Men are busy coming and going to the wharf. Some roll barrels. Others carry them in their arms or on their shoulders. Some of the containers have flour or sugar while others hold mended trawl lines and hooks. The barrels are placed on the Annie’s deck and secured around the mainmast with half-inch rope. Wheelbarrows of salt for preserving fish make their way onto the boat. The salt is lowered in buckets to below deck, where it is dumped and shovelled into two temporary pounds built in the centre of the ship’s hull. A two-foot cast iron auger used in the drilling of new holes during last winter’s restoration is tossed up out of the hole. Michael Mullins picks it up off the deck and brings it down to the wharf, where Henry Healy snatches it from his hand and hurries off the wharf.
The air is full of grunts and panting, cursing and swearing, singing and talking, friendly insults, and laughter. Fishing gear, tools, clothes, food, and water are passed over the heads of the crowd in barrels, puncheon tubs, wooden trunks, and brin bags. No pair of useful hands dares escaping the work necessary to help guarantee a good voyage.
Anne admires the strong sense of spirit and pride in young and old alike. The weather-beaten faces sweat, squint, blink, and smile. They know that each trip to sea is a chance at a better tomorrow for all. And with no signs of bad weather ahead, the old fellows say this next trip to Golden Bay will be a successful one.
The air is much the same as that of downtown St. John’s. The foulness of fresh fish guts and raw sewage from the landwash mixes with drying cod on the tall flakes hovering over the land around her. The aroma of baking bread and buns drifting beneath raised kitchen windows manages to find a place of its own in the warming air.
The hundreds of split fish giving up their moisture to the sun on the flakes are part of a long chain of commerce. Most of the fish has been caught by crews from outside Fox Harbour. From here it will be shipped to St. John’s, sold again, and redistributed to foreign-going vessels. In Spain, Portugal, and the West Indies it will be traded for rum, molasses, and spices unavailable in Newfoundland. The foreign commodities are brought back and tagged with high prices by big city mercantile firms for outport merchants like Jim and Mike Healy, who will jack the prices themselves for local fishermen like Jack Foley and Charlie Sampson, who, like their fathers before them, will never live free of debt.
Anne’s brothers, the proprietors of M & J Healy Ltd., once called Richard K. Healy & Sons Ltd., will get a morsel of the profits. When all is said and done, they’ll be no better off than anyone else at the end of the season. No matter what some say. Working together Monday to Saturday, getting drunk Saturday night, telling stories, singing and dancing arm in arm will carry on as it always did.
The
Healy brothers, Jim, Mike, and Henry, have made this miserable trade their life’s work. Just as their father showed them. Jim and Mike skippered their father’s vessels for ages, but in the past few years they preferred to stay ashore. With trustworthy skippers like John Mullins, the Healys have little to worry about.
The vegetable drills on either side of Anne are not unlike her own on Allandale Road in St. John’s. She’s glad she’s not responsible for these crops today. A couple of her boys and girls play over around the store while her oldest child, Tom, helps his Uncle Mike. They’re out at the end of the wharf, coiling large spools of trawl line into tubs to go aboard the Annie Healy.
Anne and her children came on the train yesterday. The trip from Placentia Sound in her father’s boat, Tojori, revealed little change since she was a young girl. Tojori is special to the Furlongs, named by their grandfather Healy for Anne’s first three children, Tom, Joan, and Richard.
The Furlongs are staying until tomorrow, to see the Annie Healy leave. The next morning they’ll part on the train. The young ones have a couple of days to explore the woods, ponds, rivers, hills, and behind old barns and under stores. Little treasures are always waiting to be found. The trip back will be just as exciting. They’ll soak up the sun and the salt spray coming in over Tojori as she makes her way out around Connor Cove and into The Sound. The twenty-minute walk from the water’s edge to Ville Marie Station will give their legs a good stretch. They plan to spend Saturday afternoon at Bally Haly Golf Course outside the city. “And God help you,” Anne said to her young ones before they left home, “if you use them clubs in the yard and break a window, the clubs will go in the corner and that’s where they’ll stay.”
Taking in her surroundings, the days and nights of Anne’s youth flood her mind. Feelings of innocence and freedom. Playing with her friends, Kate Whiffen, Sarah Reilly, and John Mullins. She smiles even more and wonders where the time has gone.
