Downhill Chance (6 page)

“Did she hear the bluebells ringing?”

“Ooh, Missy—”

“Did she?”

“Bluebells don’t ring.”

“Mommy, bluebells ring, don’t they?” said Missy, leaving off her sister, and settling back besides her mother. “And supposing she’d slept sounder and never heard them ringing?”

“If there was such a thing, they still would’ve been ringing,” said Sare.

“But would she still died if she never heard them?”

“I think so, child.”

“But her daddy never heard them, right?”

“I guess they weren’t ringing for him.”

“And he’d just done burying his girl, when they brought him his wife?”

“And he dug up his girl, and laid her with her mommy. Then he buried them both.”

“And then he planted the trees.”

“One for each of them, and they joined together over the headstone, and grow’d as one.”

“And now nobody can move the headstone, right?”

“Not even the sea.”

“And the bestest blueberries grow there and nobody picks them—because of the roots.”

“Back then they never, my dolly; for the faintest tinge of blue staining a lip would be sure to bring on a flogging.”

“Tell me about the roots, Mommy.”

Taking a deep breath, Sare launched into how the outporters believed it was the flesh of their dead that fertilized them berries, and their growth was a reminder to all hands left living that just as the roots of berry bushes nourishes the life above it, so, too, are people the walking roots of their own souls, and how it’ll be their deeds that will judge the ripeness of their own resurrection someday. “No, my dolly, nobody picks them berries,” said Sare, “not even today do anyone pick the blueberries on Miller’s Island. Isn’t that right, Father?”

“You shouldn’t be telling her that stuff,” said Job, steering them away from the island, the gruffness of his tone causing Clair to glance back at him.

Sare turned, equally as surprised. “What
stuff?
” she asked.

“It’s what gives her bad dreams,” said Job.

“Glory be, I always said you were squeamish—goodness, Job!” she cried out as he swerved the boat suddenly, knocking them to one side. Grabbing hold of her seat, Clair turned to face a four-foot mound of ice a hand’s reach in front of her, the wind licking cold around its greeny blue contours and sweeping over her face with a chill that felt like fire. Swerving them still farther, her father let out an oath as the boat bumped against the big ice, rocking alarmingly before clearing it.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he called out over Missy’s screams and Sare’s shrieks as he steered them closer to shore.

“Mercy, Job, didn’t you see it?” cried Sare.

“It’s what comes from talk of the dead,” he answered, the gruffness back in his voice. “It’s fine, my dolly, it’s fine,” he then said soothingly to Missy as she continued to sob. “You get a fright, Clair?”

Clair stared back at him, hands rigid onto her seat, shaking her head.

“That’s the girl,” he said softly. And ignoring Sare’s eyes sharply upon him, he nodded to Clair, saying, “It’s the strongest amongst us that hides their fears the bestest, my dolly; now leave off your talk, Missy, and watch for our house. See, there it is,” and they all turned with relief towards the Basin lying straight ahead, with its painted clapboard houses dotting the side of the hill that encircled the bottom of the bay, and their house, one of the farthest upon the hill and as white as snow, looking down upon them. But it was the steamer that stole their attention—the sixty-foot passenger and cargo ship that steamed up the bay once every two weeks after the ice had thawed and was now docked by the company wharf. Usually the wharf was swarming with the outporters greeting friends and acquaintances on board, and exchanging news and items of interest as they waited for their parcels and newspapers to be unloaded and passed amongst them. Today, the wharf was empty. And aside from the gulls circling and shrieking overhead, the outport appeared more quiet than Rocky Head.

“It feels like Sunday,” said Sare a few minutes later as they drew nearer and Job cut the motor, adding to the stillness of the air. “We haven’t got the days mixed up, have we?”

“The steamer don’t put ashore on Sundays,” said Job. “Must be somebody dead. Bide now,” he cautioned as Sare half rose, her hand to her heart, and straddling past her, he guided them alongside the wharf. A shadow blocked the sun. Looking up, Clair shrank back as an apparition lifted from her history book, stared down at them—his beret perched to the side and his green, baggy-pocketed coat opened to the wind.

“Good day, sir,” said her father, tossing the painter up to the soldier as if he weren’t at all perturbed by his presence and the Basin as quiet as death.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Sare, a tremor in her voice as the soldier caught the rope, looping it around the grunt.

“I expect we’ll find out,” said Job, beckoning Clair forward. Taking hold of her waist, he helped her find her footing onto the ladder, then gently boosted her upwards. The soldier held down a hand and she hesitated, looking into a pair of eyes that crinkled almost as deep as her father’s. Then as her mother clambered onto the ladder behind her, she grabbed hold of the hand and scrabbled quickly onto the wharf.

“Bad planning, perhaps?” said the soldier as her father climbed up on the wharf behind her mother and Missy. Her father looked puzzled for a minute, glancing towards the store that sat half on the wharf, half on land with its blinds drawn, and the fishers’ boats hauled up onshore, signalling they’d already pulled their nets and were home for the day. “They’ve all gone hunting,” said the soldier. “Overnight—or longer—so it seems,” he added, beckoning towards the store and Willamena, the merchant Saul’s daughter, peering through a corner of the blinds.

“Is this your first port of call?” asked Job.

“The last,” said the soldier. “They’re inside, taking dinner.” Clair saw then, others dressed in garnseys and lumberjackets like her father’s, darkening some of the portholes and doorways as they passed by or glanced out through, none of whom she recognized.

“Job,” said her mother, taking hold of his arm, her voice thick with worry, but he was looking past her, along with the soldier, towards a short, stocky man with a brown worsted cap pulled low over his ears and with a pack on his back, appearing around the corner of the store and walking hesitantly towards them.

“Your name, sir?” asked the soldier, his voice suddenly brusque as the fellow approached, and laid his bag at his feet.

“Joey,” said he, softly.

“Last name?”

“Osmond.”

“Where you from, Osmond?”

“Rocky Head, sir.”

“Any more behind you?”

Joey shook his head, darting an apprehensive look at the steamer. As the soldier pointed to the foot of the gangway, ordering “Go on board, sir,” Clair saw that he lifted his pack and walked towards it with a steady pace.

Missy started whimpering about her feet getting cold, and her mother tugged on her father’s arm, coaxing him to come along now, and let’s go home. And for sure he was about to do just that, but Clair saw, as he wrapped his arm around her mother’s shoulders, holding her tight to his side, that quiet, lingering nod between her father and the soldier, as if they already were comrades in arms.

“There’ll be a cheque coming to them every month,” said the soldier.

“What cheque—” asked her mother.

“Take your sister’s hand, Clair,” cut in her father. And tightening his arm around Sare, he bundled her towards the road leading up from the wharf.

“Wait, Job, you’re not thinking—”

“We leave in twenty minutes,” the soldier called.

“No, Job, you’re not going—”

“Shh, let’s go home,” said Job, hurrying her forward as her voice began to rise. “Hurry, Clair; follow your sister, Missy.”

Clair started after her father, tugging on Missy’s hand; but her legs felt stiff, numbed. The store door opened, revealing Willamena’s sharp, pointy features. “The men’s in on Faltner’s Flat—by old Rushie Pond road,” she hissed.

Job’s step slowed, and Clair, despite her aversion to this old school buddy, turned to her as a drowning fisher to a buoy.

“Then, that’s where you’ll go!” Sare whispered fiercely. “You’ll follow after everyone else.”

Turning to neither of them, Job picked up his step again, leading Sare onward. And Willamena, her narrow eyes falling onto Clair, took on a look of hauteur and snapped shut the store door. Tightening her hold on Missy’s hand, Clair hurried after her father. Aside from two mutts circling and sniffing each other’s hind legs, the road leading through the outport was deserted. Yet, shadows shifted behind curtain corners as they walked by, and the occasional housewife followed out onto their stoop, calling out to Job in hushed tones. But he paid no heed. Marching straight ahead, he half-carried, half-led the protesting Sare towards home, looking over his shoulder every so often to check on Clair and Missy, and the steamer tied up to the wharf. Missy began to whimper, and Clair, not wanting to disrupt her mother’s pleadings, slowed her step to allow an easier pace. When finally they entered the garden gate, and untied the storm door, they bustled inside the house, and Sare gave way to straight-out wailing.

“You’re not going; tell me you’re not going!”

“Shh, you’ll frighten the girls,” he said, reaching for her.

“You can’t go! You won’t!” she shrieked, tearing away from him. “In the name of God, you won’t leave this house and board no boat for some God-forsaken war.”

“I won’t hide, Sare,” he spoke quietly. “It’s a man’s duty to his country, and I won’t hide like a coward.”

“You will, yes you will hide! And you won’t be no coward, neither. Who says he’s a coward that fends for his own family? Who’ll fend for me while you’re gone—and the girls?”

“Sim’ll see to things.”

“Sim!”
Sare sneered.

“Please, Sare …”

“No! No—don’t you dare beg me to leave you be.” Clair clutched Missy’s hand as her mother suddenly turned eyes clouded with fear onto them. Grabbing him by the arm, she dragged him towards them, crying with renewed vigour. “Look! Look at them! They’re your girls! You said you’d never leave them, Job; you said you’d never leave them.”

He closed his eyes as if the sight of Clair and Missy might prove too much. “It’s not forever,” he half whispered.

“You can’t say that!” cried Sare.

“Yes, I can.”

“No! No, you can’t! You won’t leave me! You’ll be killed. Please—Job—”

Scooping her off her feet, Job carried her into the stairwell. “You’ll watch Missy?” he said over his shoulder to Clair.

“Is Daddy leaving?”cried Missy as her father carried her mother up the stairs. Taking her hand, Clair led her to the divan besides the stove and they sat down, side by side, leaning each against the other.

“Is he, Clair—is he leaving?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Clair, but she knew, knew from the way he had tossed the painter up to the soldier that he was leaving, that his mind had already been set from before he’d even met the soldier—from somewhere back in the cabin when he’d sit in the dark, smoking his pipe and listening to his country’s call. It was mixed up in there somehow, the mother country was, with the Lord’s Prayer— Our Father, our kingdom—no different than if God had descended the yellow pathway from heaven and given the call himself.

Scrunching back in the chair, she rocked with Missy, listening to her mother’s muted cries floating back down over the stairs, and her father’s soothing murmurs as he tried to quiet her. The cries turned to hushed sobs, then moans, and soon her father was hurrying back down the stairs. Crouching before them, he laid a hand on each of their shoulders, shaking them gently.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, his eyes milky chocolate in the sun slanting through the kitchen curtains. Pulling Clair into his arms, he held her tight. “You’ll take care of your little sister,” he said into her hair. “Make sure you does your homework every night; you’re going to be a grand teacher someday. And practise your reading, because for sure you’ll beat out Willamena in the reading contest again this year—and that’ll be something to write to your old daddy about: showing up the merchant’s daughter. And go get Uncle Sim to come help your mother. And don’t ever forget—” he leaned back, his eyes more soft than she had ever seen them “—I’ll be back. No matter how long it takes, I’ll be back.”

“But, where’re you going, Daddy?” asked Missy, her voice still on a whine.

“To help other fathers fight in a war,” he said, cupping her chin and dropping little kisses on her nose. “You be a good girl and listen to Mommy and Clair, and when I comes back, I’ll be bringing you presents.”

“Can I come, too?”

“No, not this time. Remember your prayers—and say an extra one for Daddy.”

“But I wants to come.”

“Shh, now, you’ll make Mommy cry agin, and that’s not a good girl, is it, Clair? I got to go now. You’ll see to her, Clair?”

Clair nodded, not knowing what she was nodding to, knowing only that there were no daddies in wars, only soldiers who shot and got shot, and whose bodies got blasted by bombs that spilled their guts upon the ground no different from that of a slaughtered moose.

“Hey!” He cupped her chin as he had Missy’s and his breath, like spiced tobacco, grazed her face, all warm and sweet. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be going to England. There’s no fighting there, and perhaps there never will be—if they sees how many of us are willing to fight for her shores. And I’ll be right by the sea all the time, looking over here towards you and Missy. All right, my dolly? So you better keep watching for them northern lights, because when you sees them dancing, you knows it’s me standing on the other shore, whistling. All right, my dolly?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

“And mind what your mother says,” he added more quietly, his eyes moving slowly, tenderly, over her face as though memorizing its every curve. “We’re the walking roots of our souls, that’s what we are, and we got to nourish what’s underneath. You remember that, no matter what happens, a man’s got to do what his heart tells him—else what’s underneath will wither and rot like last year’s spuds. And of what good is resurrection then? You understand me, Clair?” Her mouth quivered and he pulled her against him, his chin rough on her forehead as he rained kisses all over it. Then, he was on his feet and lunging towards the door, his muffled sobs hoarse in his throat.