Great Cape Breton Storytelling

by Great Cape Breton Storytelling (epub)

  “Ye’ve always been a good neighbour, Jennie,” said Martha as she finished buttering the biscuits. “I’d be after goin’ foolish by now, only fer ye.”

  “Will ye be all right now fer a while? I mustn’t stay no longer. The ol’ man’ll be after blowin’ the top of his head, bein’ there’s no supper fer him. We’ll both be back after we’ve ate,” said Jennie, as she put on her shawl.

  The day of the funeral passed. And day after day, Willie searched the house. He tore the bed apart, he emptied boxes and drawers. Martha often caught him looking at her with his mouth shut tight and his eyes almost closed. The search went on.

  Martha bought new dresses for the girls and one for herself. She hung new curtains in the kitchen. A parcel came from her cousin Frannie down in the States, with the usual things all too large or too small for the children. Martha hid the contents and disposed of the box. She felt safe now.

  Then one day the silence was broken. It was on a Sunday, and they were in church. Willie reached across his wife to drop his envelope into the collection basket, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her new dress. Martha watched his eyes sweep over her and on to the girls at the end of the pew. Between her “Hail Mary’s” she whispered to herself, “Here it is — here it is.” Willie’s jaw was set hard.

  After Mass, they all got into the rig for the journey home. Willie flicked the horse with the reins; leaning over so as not to splatter the rig, he spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the light snow.

  “New dresses ye and the girls got on?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Frannie sent a parcel?”

  “Yes.”

  They drove home in silence.

  That night after supper, Martha pulled her shawl over her head and waded the river to Jennie’s place.

  “Jennie,” said she, almost in tears, “I believe Willie’s caught on.”

  “How?” asked Jennie, lowering herself into the comfort of her old rocking chair for support.

  “The way he looks at me, when he looks at all. And he noticed the dresses — and he asked about them. I was lucky. Frannie’d sent a box, and when he asked about it, I said ‘Yes.’” Martha shuddered. “What if he’d not asked just the way he did?”

  “What d’ye mean?” asked Jennie. “Which way did he ask?”

  “He just said, ‘Frannie sent a box?’ What if he’d said, ‘Did Frannie send them things?’ What would I have said then?”

  “Yeh! Ye and yer conscience!” Jennie went over to the stove to get the teapot. “Twould only have been a white lie if ye did say yes. Ye’re the one as should get the money anyway. That shouldn’t be no sin. If you said the Act of Contrition right away.”

  “He’d know I was lyin’.” Martha left her tea untasted. “I was never one to lie. I just couldn’t do it. Oh! I’m after wishin’ I never started this thing at all.”

  “There, there, now, drink yer tea and quit worryin’. Perhaps he’ll not be after askin’ ye more questions at all.”

  Jennie was wrong. At dinner next day, Willie loaded his fork with herring and potatoes and pushed it into his mouth.

  “Them curtains,” he said, with his mouth still full. “New, ain’t they? And the kids’ overalls?”

  “Yes,” Martha answered.

  “Sooooo, Frannie sends all new things now?” Willie grabbed the backbone of the herring, scraped off the flesh and threw the bone down on the table. “Musta come into money. Couldn’t be Helen’s money bought them now, could it?”

  Martha didn’t answer.

  Willie didn’t expect her to.

  Winter storms came early that year. Within two days the snow was well over three feet deep, and it kept on falling. Martha looked out at the sheep. Their wool was long. They seemed to love the cold. She watched them come out of their shelter to feed at the rack, to eat snow, and to mill about. When the storm abated, she put on her warmest clothes and went out to talk to them and stroke their heads. Willie watched her from the window, but turned his back when she entered the kitchen. Willie stalked through the house from win-dow to window, cursing as he went. He shovelled paths that filled in behind him. Martha crouched over her catalogues. She bought for everyone. Willie’s gumshoes showed holes through the patches. Martha bought him new ones. She made heavy woollen pants for him to wear in the woods, and a cap with earflaps. Willie accepted everything as if it were customary. He did not even blink when he saw new coats on the women folk.

  Storm followed storm. Groceries ran out, and when it was possible to get to the store, everything was bought on credit. In the spring, when the timber was hauled out of the woods and the trucks loaded for the mill, the bills were paid. But when this spring came, the storms never abated. And spring held no hope, for there was no timber cut for loading.

  For a long time past, Willie had taken his bed privileges without word or warmth. More than once, Martha had been on the point of telling him about the money and comforting him that all was not lost — that they could meet their bills. But she found herself unable to speak.

  Martha spent most of her days with the sheep. It was lambing time.

  “Cummina Hashen,” said Jennie, leaning over the sheep pen. “I thought this would be where I’d find ye.”

  Martha smiled. “There’ll be a storm for sure with ye comin’ out,” she teased. “Come on in. I been out here day and night since the little lambs started comin’.” She held up a newborn lamb. “He wasn’t breathin’ at all at first. He came round though,” she said, stroking the baby lamb gently.

  “Martha,” Jennie called. “Come and give me a hand. Seems I’ve hung me big arse up on a barbed wire.”

  Martha set the lamb down and hurried over. For the first time in months, she laughed. “If you only knowed how funny ye look there in them wires, both arms swingin’ like a lobster, yer feet hardly touchin’ the ground, and yer rear end hoisted up in the air like a straw tickin’ out fer airin’ in the spring.”

  And they laughed until they could laugh no more, and wiped their eyes.

  “She was a bad winter,” said Jennie. “The ol’ feller nearly drove me outta me mind. In the house all the time, pickin’, pickin’, pickin’.”

  “I know what ye mean,” said Martha, with a sigh. “Willie’s after buttonin’ hisself up inside fer nearly two months now. Talkin’ to no one except when he has to, or to give someone the what for.” She picked up her latest lamb, and they started toward the house.

  “Ye didn’t tell him anything, did ye?” asked Jennie, peering into her friend’s face.

  “Ye old fraud, ye!” Martha laughed. “That’s what’s been on yer mind since ye came. No! Not that I hadn’t a mind to tell him more than once. Just to see if he’d come out of it, knowin’ the bills could be paid. But every time I started, he’d look at me as if there weren’t nobody there, and I got tongue-tied. If he keeps on like this though, I’ll have to tell.”

  With the aid of Larry, Willie repaired the ravages of winter.They spread manure on the fields and put in new fence posts. The shearers came and garnered the wool crop. Willie piled the bags of wool onto the truck-wagon, took Martha’s list of groceries, and went to town.

  “It’s good Willie’s gone to town,” Martha said to the children. “Pray God he’ll be after comin’ back in better cheer.”

  That night in bed, Martha felt that Willie turned to her for more than hasty relief. She ventured a question.

  “Why didn’t ye manure the plowed field?” she asked.

  “How?” Willie answered in an icy voice.

  “Won’t it be too late if it’s put off much longer?”

  “No!”

  “No? How’s that, Willie?” Martha insisted.

  “No need breakin’ me back manurin’ a field there’s no seed fer.”

  “Won’t the wool buy the seed?” Martha could feel his body st
iffen, but at last she had him talking and she intended to keep him talking.

  “There’s bills, woman! How is it ye’re buttin’ into man’s business?” From Willie, that was enough. Martha lay quiet. But Willie did not seem anxious to let the conversation stop there.

  “Course, there’s one thing more I could do.”

  “Why don’t ye, Willie?” said Martha eagerly. “Twould be a sin to let the field lie fallow.”

  “That’s right. And it plowed and all. I’ll do ’er tomorrer.”

  “Do what? What is it ye’ll be after doin’ tomorrer?”

  “Gittin’ a buyer fer the sheep.”

  “The sheep!”

  “Yeah, the sheep!” There was no mistaking the smugness in Willie’s voice.

  “Willie, how much d’ye have to have? Fer the seed, I mean. Perhaps I could git the money, and you’d not have to sell the sheep —” Martha’s voice broke. “The wool crop each year is a big help, and the little lambs . . . .”

  “It’s meself that knows how much of a help the wool and the lambs be each year, but a man can’t leave his horses and cows to starve either. I’ll be goin’ to town again tomorrer to see about a buyer.”

  “Willie! It was meself that got Helen’s money! Ye could have it. No need to sell the sheep!”

  “I know ye had it, woman, all along. How much?”

  “Ye didn’t ask me before.”

  “Didn’t have to. How much have ye got after the spendin’ spree ye’ve been havin’ all winter?” There was no softness in Willie’s voice.

  “There’s six hundred left. That should pay up everything and be enough over fer the seed.” Martha waited.

  “Git the money and give it here!” said Willie, striking a match and lighting the lamp beside the bed.

  “Right now? In the middle of the night?”

  “Course, now! It may be I’ll be after leavin’ afore ye gits up, come mornin’.”

  Martha leapt up from the bed and went to her ragbag in the corner beyond the old chest. Out of its depths she took a knotted rag and handed it to Willie. In the flickering lamp light, she watched him count out five hundred and eight dollars. Martha smiled secretly. What did money matter? She was free from guilt now, and her sheep would be safe.

  Willie was gone by daybreak.

  At about ten o’clock, Jennie came over the river. “Well, I must say ye looks happy this mornin’,” she said, sitting down in her usual chair. “The ol’ fella sleep with ye last night?”

  Martha blushed and Jennie chortled. “Ye’re blushin’, Marthie. Ye know, I ain’t sure it ain’t a downright sin fer a woman yer age to be still as pretty as ye are, when ye blush.”

  “Ye’re an old fraud, Jennie.” Martha threw her head back and laughed. But Martha was not accustomed to laughing, and it seemed as if the sound of her voice startled her. “Don’t know if I could stand things if ye and yer jokes wasn’t around to put some life into the world.”

  “Why? What happened?” said Jennie. She wasn’t teasing now.

  “Ye’re gonna take me fer a fool, but I gave Willie what was left of the money. He was gonna sell the sheep!”

  Willie was back by noon. He had never returned from town so early before.

  “Give the horses a drink,” he shouted to Larry, “and some feed. Then git the harrow out. I’ll be needin’ ye, so don’t go away.”

  And Willie went in for his dinner.

  Martha took up the food she’d left warming in pots at the back of the stove, and sat beside him with a cup of tea, watching him as he ate.

  “Ye had a quick trip, then,” she said.

  “No need fer talk with all the work that’s to be done.”

  “Ye got the seed with the money?”

  “Yeh.” Willie was in rare good humour. “Seed and some fertilizer. New stuff. S’pose to sweeten the land.”

  Martha watched him as he walked down to the barn. She saw the loaded truck-wagon and turned to her work. There was no one in the house to hear her singing. Willie had bought apples and some raisins. She’d bake him a pie. Apple and raisin pie was his favourite. Might as well make nice fresh biscuits too, long as she was at it. Martha’s nook of a pantry was tiny and without a window. What light there was came in through the doorway. The flour barrel furnished a stand for her breadboard, and the three small shelves above held her spices. She neither saw nor heard the men arrive. They didn’t come any further than the barn.

  Willie and the children talked all through supper. Willie praised the children for their help. He praised Martha for her cooking.

  “Marthie, ye’re a wonder! Me favourite pie! Guess there ain’t no one can make apple and raisin pie like yer granma, kids,” he said. The children smiled nervously. They knew something they didn’t understand was going on. It was Larry who spoke. “Will them fellers be takin’ the sheep to town?” “No, Son. They’ll be takin’ them to Sydney. They’ll be slaughtered there.”

  In the field beside the old apple tree, Martha wept. She wept tears for today — for yesterday — for the whole long winter. For her whole life. When there were no tears left and the sun had given the day its last embrace, she got up, straightened her shawl, and walked slowly down to the river. On the bank, she unlaced her shoes, tied them together, and hung them around her neck. She stepped into the cool water. The sharp rocks bit into her bare feet. She didn’t feel them. On the other side, she sat down and slowly pulled her shoes back on. It was there Jennie found her.

  “Cummina Hashen! I was just startin’ over to yer place. Bein’ ye’ve come to mine, all the better. What’s the matter, Marthie? What’s wrong? Ye sick? Ye look that white and peaked! Here. Let me help ye up to the house. The ol’ man’s gone off fer to see can he git a deer. We can talk it all over on a cup o’ tea.”

  Martha didn’t move.

  “Willie sold the sheep,” she said. “Behind me back it was — while I was bakin’ him a pie — special. And me thinkin’ they was saved.”

  Joan Clark

  God’s Country

  From the beginning Emily felt self conscious about taking the mine tour. Anybody would feel slightly foolish taking a tour in her old home town, paying money, buying a ticket to view something she’d grown up with. It was a bold admission of ignorance, of not having known enough about Harbour Mines when she’d lived here, of having missed something so important that after another life somewhere else, in Emily’s case twenty years, she had to come back to find it.

  Though she had disguised herself as a social studies teacher who was here to learn something about the mining industry, Emily knew she was fooling herself. She couldn’t help wanting the man in the ticket booth to have the angular face and brown eyes of Damien Roscoe. But the man in front of her pushing a ticket through the makeshift window was short and blue-eyed. She was annoyed at herself for expecting to see Damien. What did she think they could possibly say to each other after all these years?

  Emily went outside and sat on a bench in the sun. The bench was lobster red and shiny as if it had been painted the day before. She leaned back against the grey shed and closed her eyes remembering how when she lived here, the daughter of school teacher parents, she had thought of miners as going off to war, knowing that those men who left their houses every morning tunnelled underneath the ocean in a black trench roofed over by sea bottom. A no-man’s land. People seldom spoke of it, of the casualties: the cave-ins, the gassings, the accidents. No one would have toured the pit any more than they would have toured a mine field. Back then it wasn’t customary for busses of school children to be driven to factories, plants and mines for social studies projects. It was enough to see the miners downtown Saturday night before the nine o’clock show, spending their wages in the British-Canadian Co-op, the People’s Store, the OK. It was enough to see them reeling out of the tavern onto the cinder parking lot cursing and brawling. And
then in church Sunday mornings, faces scrubbed red and cowlicks plastered down, sitting there subdued, good Christian soldiers.

  “Be another ten minutes yet.” A dapper man wearing a bow tie and white shirt beneath overalls had come out of the shed and was walking toward Emily.

  He stuck out his hand. “Jim Macdonald’s the name.”

  Emily gave him her name. “But I used to be a Prentice,” she said.

  Mr. Macdonald tipped back his hard hat and scratched his head. “Prentice. Prentice. Don’t I know that name from somewheres?”

  “My parents were teachers here. I grew up in Harbour Mines.”

  “So that’s it. I knew the name was familiar.” Then pretending to scold, Mr. Macdonald said, “What’s the matter with you that you’re not living here now?”

  “I live out West with my family. I teach school there.”

  “One of those blue-eyed Arabs, eh?” He shot her a sly look. “Getting rich off us poor fellas down here.”

  Emily didn’t rise to the bait. Mr. Macdonald knew as well as she did that Cape Breton oil came from Venezuela not Alberta.

  “You don’t need oil,” she said, challenging him. “Look at the coal.” She nodded toward the black mounds near the railway tracks, “the heaps,” they were called. “You can burn those.”

  “Nobody wants our coal,” Mr. Macdonald said. “That’s why the colliery shut down.”

  “Well, at least there’s enough to keep the furnaces here going for a long time,” Emily said.

  Mr. Macdonald laughed. “You been gone a long time, Lady,” he said. “Our coal furnaces were hauled away to the scrap pile years ago and replaced by oil furnaces. A crying shame it was but we can’t turn back the clock now can we?”

  As if to answer, Emily studied the faces of the three miners who sat opposite her. None of them looked familiar. She wasn’t sure she’d recognize Damien Roscoe even if she did see him. She had a newspaper photograph of him back home in her photo album but it was fuzzy-grey, out-of-focus; it wasn’t any more use than the photograph which hung in an oval frame on her bedroom wall in Calgary. The photograph was of her dead grandmother whom she’d never seen.