Bishop's Road

“Hope, folly, wisdom. …the book's point is its picaresque journey, a tumble of overlapping mini-narratives….Life lessons surface and bob like corks on Safer's buoyant prose.”

The Globe and Mail

“…imbued with a feminist spirituality that is humorous, earthy, and big enough to embrace men, women, and Barbie dolls to boot….feisty…unique…reminiscent
of Fall On Your Knees
in its outlandish - often gothic, and grotesque occurrences, and in its acrobatically poetic prose….those who are open to the nuances of Safer's quirky mind will keep turning the page…a new sub-genre: Magic Realism from the Rock.”

Atlantic Books Today

“…a magical and moving story that eludes description…The novel heralds the talent of a very original voice…a novel of complexity and compassion.”

The Chronicle Herald

“Her style is her own, and it is sure, and poetic, with lots of humour and energy and unique phrasings.”

The Telegram

“In Bishop's Road, first-time novelist Catherine Safer has com-posed a love song to St. John's, Nfld., with lyrics that would make Cole Porter, Stan Rogers—or Ron Hynes—proud.”

The Daily News

by

Catherine Safer

©2004, Catherine Safer

We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts
for our publishing program.

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book
Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP)
for our publishing program.

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced
or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior
written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or
information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing
to the Canadian Reprography Collective,
One Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

Cover Art: Katherine Munro
Cover Design: Todd Manning

Published by
KILLICK PRESS
an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING
a Transcontinental Inc. associated company
P.O. Box 8660, St. John's, Newfoundland A1B 3T7

First Printing November 2004
Second Printing May 2005

Typeset in 12 point Garamond
Printed in Canada by:
Transcontinental Inc.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Safer, Catherine, 1950-

                Bishop's Road / by Catherine Safer.

ISBN 1-894294-78-5

I. Title.

PS8637.A44B48 2004        C813'.6        C2004-906589-0

Dedication

This one is for Andreae and Jennifer, who are so lovely. For Susie, who read and liked it. For Andrew who said, “Go write something. I'll bring home the bacon.”

Bishop's Road is long enough. And straight. If you walk back and forth every day you'll lose a few pounds and tighten up but most people around here don't bother with that. Mrs. Miflin's boarding house sits between a Catholic Church, with priest's rectory, and a school - all on their last legs. Now and again the Department of Education threatens to close the school but the parents get upset and have meetings and eventually the talk dies down for a couple of years. The church puts on a brave face but since hardly anyone goes to Mass these days, except for the mid-night service on Christmas Eve, maybe, and during Lent when you absolutely have to, its days are numbered as well. A very old priest lives in the rectory with his equally ancient housekeeper who is terrible for getting on his nerves but makes great bread pudding when she's in the mood.

Across the road and down a cobblestone path, the only one left in the city, tucked away behind poplar, maple, birch, aspen and a low stone wall, is what was once an orphanage. It stood empty for years until some enterprising members of the arts community begged it away from the church. The artists are generally happy there except for the ones who work late into the night because no one can get the crying out of the walls and they are thinking of packing up their brushes and going elsewhere.

There used to be a lot of little nuns around in the old days, teaching in the school and the orphanage. Since the ones conceived in sin would surely have a negative influence on those from proper homes, everyone agreed to keep the children separate back then. With the Word of God on their lips and black leather straps on their belts - next to the Rosary beads - the holy women confused several generations of youngsters for a hundred years or more until they all just dried up and blew away. No one remembers exactly when that happened but surely it was a sunny day with just enough sweet wind to whip through the convent and out the back door with those withered Brides of Christ in tow. Once
the dust settled and it became apparent that no one in the world was interested in taking over the duties of the recently departed Sisters of Joy, Mrs. Miflin bought the convent for a song. Rumors of devil worship and torture, orgies and the like, didn't entice too many prospective buyers among the locals even if they'd had the money, and the fact that it would take a king's ransom to heat the place kept everyone else away. But not Mrs. Miflin. She had started most of the rumours herself a few years ago anyway, and she doesn't have the furnace on between April and November no matter what the temperature. How she got the old nuns to cooperate is anyone's guess but they weren't gone an hour before she was beating on Father Delaney's door with her offer to buy.

Ginny Mustard grew up in the orphanage. And the little nuns tried to hammer things into her soft yellow head. Had her kneel at the front of the room with her nose to the wall for a bit of ridicule now and then. If ever they felt the need for reinforcement they encouraged the other children to find her faults and laugh, though not too loudly, mind, because either one of them might be next - there were no shining stars in Ginny Mustard's world. She moved from the orphanage to the streets and on to Mrs. Miflin's house. If she's not careful she can see the window of the ward where she slept from the front porch in the winter when the trees are bare and so she keeps her eyes the other way until she is down the road and around a corner.

Mrs. Miflin's house is big with many rooms, not accustomed to sudden sound or quick movement though it is quite familiar with haunted dreams. The original furniture is still there. In the walls are nooks and crannies holding statues of Mary the Mother of Jesus and occasionally, Jesus himself, wounded and
weary. Mrs. Miflin is what you might call a good Catholic. She makes it to Mass every morning. She takes Communion every day. And every Friday, doesn't matter what that Pope said, there's fish on the dinner table. For Lent she gives up what pleasure she takes in life and when her feet hurt she complains only a little and would have you believe she offers most of her discomfort for the repose of the poor souls in Purgatory. Kneeling at night, she says a Rosary before her head touches the pillow, no matter how tired she may be.

Everything is downhill east of Bishop's Road. It runs parallel to Caine's Street which overlooks Beaton Row which frowns on Water Street which leans closer to the ocean every day. Connecting the lot are many short streets that you don't even want to walk on, let alone drive, when it's icy. Beyond Water Street is the harbour and surrounding it but split at The Narrows are hills. In the morning the sun conies over the one on the left and at this time of year, if there are icebergs about and a little fog, the effect is enough to blind you.

Once there was a big old building messing up the view but it fell apart and no one had money to fix it. After a few hard winters it began throwing itself at passersby every time the wind blew hard. Pigeons nested there in droves and the smell was wicked in summer from tons of droppings and ratty old nests and the bodies of their deceased. So the city decided that it had to go and then put it back on their ‘things to ignore' list until the scavengers had their way with doors and windows and the half-decent bricks and then it was simply a matter of bulldozing the remains into the harbour. The government types who had worked there were long gone to a business park on the outskirts of town where there was enough heat that they didn't have to keep their coats on all day come December, and lots of cold recycled air for the five or six really hot days you get sometimes in August.

Caine's Street has houses all smooshed together and holding
each other up. Beaton Row has small shops of first and second-hand books and clothing and what-nots, restaurants and galleries. Water Street boasts offices and department stores and more bars than anyone needs. There is no parking space and most businesses do poorly. Every time you turn around there's one closing down and another opening up so there's no point in thinking anything is where you left it yesterday.

The people who live here are an odd mix. Professors from the university rub elbows with low-life who haven't held jobs for two generations. They didn't start out low, mind, but there's nothing like poverty to bring you to that level after a while. Down here children who have not known want since they were born play with urchins whose only hello for the day is the back of a hard hand across a small mouth. One is clean and the other wears last night's dinner on her pretty face. Down here is the Women's Shelter and the Salvation Army Men's Hostel and the brave souls who don't care for the rules in either of those places and would rather take their chances outside - thank you very much - until it's too friggin' cold to breathe. Even then they don't put their things away but keep all worldly possessions in garbage bags to save packing when the spring comes around again. Down here are the artists and the fine plays and the music festivals. People who live up town say they would venture down more often if there were some place to park but no one believes it except the ones who say it. When they do show up they don't really get it and usually bring lawn chairs with arms to the outdoor events so they don't have to sit too close to the riffraff.