Chain Locker (3 page)

“Emily, girl, you can't be running your life based on your fears! There's lots of things worse than having to put up with the disruption of being married to a sailor.” She grinned. “After a few years of marriage you'll probably be glad to have him out of the house for a while, anyway.”

Emily smiled obligingly. Gennie broke the brief silence. “Why do you say there's no more time left?”

“Henry's uncle is a master watch on one of the big sealing ships out of St. John's and he got Henry a berth for the ice. He'll be leaving in a few days and we won't have any contact for a couple of months, maybe longer. I simply have to get it settled before he goes.”

“I think there's something you're not telling me,” said Gennie, “about a certain other person—”

There was a commotion outside, and then the faint and earnest thumping of what could only be a grade two hand on the door, most likely female. Gennie opened it and there stood Elsie Porter with two red eyes blinking from behind her snow-covered face. “Miss, they gave me a mobbin'!” she wailed.

“Oh, dear. Come over here by the stove, Elsie, and we'll have you fixed up in no time. I'm sure it won't be the last mobbin' you'll get.” She gently closed the door to keep out three rosy-cheeked little girls, one of whom was eating snow from her mitt while another wiped her nose on her sleeve. Gennie suspected they were the guilty parties who had covered Elsie's face with snow, but she chose not to undertake an investigation and subsequent administration of justice while the victim needed comforting.

“Faith and Gail held me down and Leet mobbed me,” Elsie sobbed. “She even shoved snow down my back.”

“Well, I'll certainly have a word with Faith and Gail and Melita,” Gennie assured her as she wiped her face and tidied her hair. “But did you do anything to egg them on, now?”

“I double-dog dared them,” Elsie declared proudly.

“There you go, then. It's one thing to dare somebody—but a double-dog dare; well, you know—”

“I know, Miss. I'm sorry.” She perked up. “Will they have to stay after school?”

“We'll see. You just stay by the stove and warm up. School will be starting in a few minutes.”

“It's not very warm by the stove, Miss. Is it lit?”

The arrival of the rest of her students provided the distraction Emily needed from her preoccupation with Henry—who was a far more pleasant preoccupation than Randy and his father. She and Gennie, with the help of Jessie Locke, at sixteen the oldest and most responsible girl in the school, proceeded to set out the lessons for the day. Balancing such a mix of personalities and needs was a challenge that animated Emily, and their energy and sense of wonder—of the younger ones, especially—always served to quicken her love for her calling. But the day passed too quickly and, like Cinderella at midnight, she felt the sparkle of the previous hours drain away as the weight of her decision fell back upon her. She was in no hurry to get home, and braced herself for Randy's leering eyes.

To her immense relief, neither he nor his father was anywhere to be found. “They're gone,” her mother declared. “The wind shifted this morning and the ice let up a bit, so they decided to leave. Your father says they should be back in Herring Neck by supper.”

chapter three

On Saturday evening Emily stood in the kitchen of the big house that her grandfather had built for his eight children, waiting for the irons on the stove to heat up so she could press her clothes for church. Her mother sat in the rocking chair by the stove, knitting. “My, it's some good to have those two out of our hair and to get the house back to ourselves again.”

“Mama, when I walked through the door and you told me they were gone I could have fallen on my knees and thanked God to be rid of them.”

Her mother frowned at this flippant reference to prayer. “Well, you know, when people are in need of a place to stay, you got to help out.”

“If they were relatives, I would agree, but we didn't even know them,” Emily insisted.

“Perhaps not, but don't forget that Randy and his father rowed all the way to Twillingate for one reason and one reason only: to take your father's cousin to the hospital.”

“I know. I know,” said Emily.

“If they hadn't offered, he might have lost his foot, the infection was that bad. You got to be some careful around a hen hawk, I'll tell you.”

“A hen hawk? I thought he chopped his foot cutting wood.”

“No, my dear. A big hawk got in with the hens and he shot it with the britchloader. He thought it was dead, but when he went over it got him by the foot. Drove its spur right through his boot before it died.”

“Oh, my!”

“I suppose he didn't keep it clean because it got infected. It's a wonder he didn't get blood poisoning. They say he's going to be in the hospital for a while.”

“The poor thing; it was just trying to get something to eat,” Emily reflected.

“You know, Emily, it wasn't their fault the harbour got chinched full of ice.”

“I suppose not, but that Randy gave me the creeps, the way he kept eyeing me up and down.” She grinned, “I'm actually so thankful to them for leaving that I feel like sending them some money to show my gratitude.”

She licked the tip of her finger and dabbed it quickly on the iron. Satisfied that it was hot enough, she carefully flattened the collar of her blouse and started ironing. As she worked, she caught a glimpse of her mother across the room, frowning over her glasses at her. As her daughter met her gaze, the older woman returned to her knitting, clicking the needles with a furious rhythm.

Here we go again, Emily thought. She's building up steam about something—Basil, no doubt.

Better head her off!

Too late.

“Do you think we should invite Reverend Hudson to dinner after church tomorrow?”

“No.” She continued ironing.

“Don't you want to see Reverend Hudson?”

“It's not that I don't want to see Basil. It's just that I'm very tired with all the recent goings-on, and I was hoping to have a relaxing afternoon on Sunday. Anyway, I'll see him in the morning for hymn practice before the service.”

“Are you playing tomorrow, dear? I haven't heard you practising.”

“I tried to the other night but Randy started skulking around the organ and I couldn't bear it. I'm not worried; they're all pieces that I know.”

“I don't know why he has to pick out all the hymns every Sunday. It was so much easier when you and Mrs. Pardy picked them out.”

“I know. Basil likes to be in charge and to have his finger on everything. He says the hymns he picks complement his sermon better. Maybe they do. I just know that it drives Mrs. Pardy up the wall.”

“I was thinking that maybe he'd enjoy a meal of fipper. I don't suppose he's ever had it before. Your father got some seals today and he got a few lovely fippers off them.”

“Call it flipper, Mama. Seals don't have fippers.”

“I could make a nice flipper pie.”

“I'm sure he already has an invitation to go somewhere else.”

“If he does, then that's that but—”

“For heaven's sake, okay. But, Mama, I would prefer not to be alone with Basil, if you don't mind.”

Ada straightened up. “Has Reverend Hudson been acting in an improper manner?”

“Oh, no!” Emily blurted. “Not at all. He has been a perfect gentleman.”

“Well, I'm glad of that!” said Ada, and giving Emily a penetrating look, she returned to her knitting.

chapter four

Emily sat at the organ, off to Basil's left, with her hands folded in her lap. She was the only person in the church who had a view of him from behind the pulpit as he delivered his sermon. He was tall and slightly-built, with delicate features, and when he was making a point he gripped the inside corners of the pulpit and stood on his toes as though he would propel himself over it and fly above the congregation, ferreting out the malcontents and miscreants and bundling them into Bible class. He had an air of perfect confidence, and his English accent rang with authority among his colonial audience, making what he said indisputable. She could not help comparing Henry to this educated, articulate man. Henry was so much like most of the other men she had grown up with—easygoing, pleasant and self-effacing—and she reflected sadly that he was also one of the men from whom the sea created widows.

She glanced at her music for the tenth time to confirm that she had the correct closing hymn ready; knowing Basil would smoothly transition from the sermon to the hymn, she was watching for the signs that he was winding down. Although she was flattered that such a sophisticated man from England would be attracted to her, she knew her thoughts should be closer to home and Henry's proposal. But, Henry was so much in love with her that she could afford to be casual with him while enjoying Basil's attention. Basil was an excellent conversationalist on a wide range of subjects, which Emily appreciated immensely. Such people were rare in her life and she was enjoying the novelty.

She faced today's dinner with misgivings, though, half expecting that Basil might declare his feelings if the opportunity arose, and she had no idea how she would react. Although she was confident that neither Basil nor Henry knew about the other, she also knew she was not being honest with either of them, and guilt about her dishonesty was adding to the pressure to resolve the situation.

Basil thumped his Bible closed and glanced her way as he started singing and beckoning his audience to rise. Her hands jumped to the keyboard as the congregation stood, rapidly thumbing through their hymn books. In a few seconds Basil's voice was drowned out as, one by one, those who had found the spot joined in for a rousing chorus of “When We All Get to Heaven.”

As soon as the service ended, Emily slipped out the side door and rushed home to help Ada prepare. She cast a disapproving look at her mother. “Mama, you can't wear that apron in front of the minister. There's no need for you to be wearing those old flour-bag aprons. Where's the one with the pink flowers?”

“There's nothing wrong with this apron; it's clean. Two years in St. John's is after turning your head.”

“I know you and Daddy sacrificed so I could go, but I'm sure we can afford to get you some decent aprons. Tomorrow I'm going to order you a nice new one from the catalogue.”

There was no time to search now, as a knock on the back door announced their guest, who arrived eager for the adventure of dining on a mammal of the sea. He was not prepared for the pungent odour that drifted out when Emily's father, Jim Osmond, greeted him at the door. Assuming some misfortune had overtaken the kitchen, he prepared himself to accept whatever stop-gap measure his resourceful hostess would present. It was mildly disappointing that he would not get to try seal meat today, but he was not here for the food anyway.

“They're certainly holding up well under the circumstances,” he thought, and decided to play along as though nothing were amiss, although such an unfortunate circumstance minutes before a guest from England arrived must surely be stressful for them. He had on many occasions experienced the legendary Newfoundland stoicism—they were, after all, of English descent—and he was impressed by their ability to bear up under trials. These ladies were handling the disaster with marvellous equanimity.

But then, Ada's masterpiece appeared before him on the table, its rich, dark gravy bubbling through little fissures in the crust, the steam wafting up like mist in Eden on the day of creation. She ladled it out with her customary aplomb, cutting generous portions of turnip, onions, and huge lumps of dark meat bathed in gravy and cradled in flaky crust. All eyes turned to the good reverend. Would he like to return thanks for God's great bounty? “With pleasure!” (Surely God would forgive his slight insincerity; after all, he
was
thankful for the blessing of being at the table with Emily.)

Taking a tentative first bite, Basil was shocked that anything provided by a bountiful Creator could have such a dreadful flavour. Not only was the flavour dreadful but there was dreadful flavour in such abundance! But the way in which everybody had pounced on it made him wonder if perhaps it was
supposed
to taste like this.

“Now some say that seal tastes a lot like turr,” Emily's mother observed to the parson, “but I find it's not so strong as turr.”

“So, turr is stronger, you say? My, my. Well, I can say with certainty that I've never tasted anything…quite like this.” He smiled bravely, holding a forkful of pie evidently in need of a destination, but showing no inclination to consign one to it.

With a sympathetic smile, Emily offered, “It tastes better if you've eaten it as a child.”

“I don't see how it could taste any better, even if I had eaten it since birth,” he responded, measuring his words with care to avoid posting a debit to the heavenly register. “What exactly are turrs?”

“The proper name is murre,” Emily replied. “They're seabirds that congregate around here in winter. They nest on islands offshore. Everybody around here eats them.”

“If the proper name is murre, then why do you call them turrs?” he asked.

“I guess for the same reason that dovekies are called bullbirds and seal flipper is called fipper and figgy duff is a pudding made with raisins and not with figs. We seem to have our own word for everything,” Emily chuckled.

Emily stimulated Basil. He could see across the table an intelligent and beautiful woman who had risen above the colonial culture from which she came and had the wit to see the humour in much of it. He was just the man to rescue her from a life that was beneath her; England was a much more suitable place for her.

“We even refer to the seal hunt as the seal fishery,” she continued, “even though seals are not fish.”