Silent Time (25 page)

He looked at Dulcie with a huge smile on his face, his two thumbs in the air. “You
good
girl, Dulcie.
Good
!” Then, he pointed expressively toward the sea, as if all the way to the other side, and, to Dulcie's puzzled amazement, kept nodding his head and repeating the word “Yes!” over and over again.

Just over a year later, William and Leona were standing on a crowded wharf in Shoal Harbour, Trinity Bay, pressed closer together than they had ever been before. William couldn't help but grin at the awkward thrill of their proximity; he and Leona standing nose to nose as Dulcie, just a few feet away, strained to keep a hold on her mother's hand.

William had driven them all there to watch the take-off of the crew of black-shirted Italian airmen who were at that moment being ferried by local fishermen toward a cluster of seaplanes anchored in the wide but shallow harbour. The two dozen airmen, led by their dashingly handsome minister of aviation, General Italo Balbo, had landed in Shoal Harbour just two days earlier to rest and refuel their planes before the gruelling overseas leg of their return flight to Rome. The aviators' accomplishments had recently been celebrated in New York City and at the Chicago World's Fair. Governor Anderson wasn't about to let them pass through Newfoundland without something of the same treatment, so he had feted them royally at Government House and accompanied them here today. As a minister of the government – until the imminent dissolution of the legislature by a largely predetermined vote planned for the coming November – William had been a party to the festivities. Afterwards, he couldn't resist the opportunity to have Leona and Dulcie come with him to witness the rare and exciting spectacle of seaplanes taking to the skies.

William was enjoying himself immensely, especially since it appeared that neither of the two seemed to quite believe him when he explained that the strange dragonfly machines bobbing on the choppy waters would shortly be airborne. When the engines did roar to life and the planes taxied across the waves, he smiled as Leona involuntarily clutched his arm and Dulcie's mouth opened wide with amazement and delight. As the planes skipped one by one from the waves to the air, their amazement increased. They gazed upward with the spellbound crowd
until the twenty-four seaplanes had finally become tiny, dark crosses against the distant sky.

Later, as the crowd was dispersing, William caught sight of a familiar face. It was Sir John Crawford's son-in-law, the newspaperman, Albert Pearlman. Albert lingered at the end of the wharf for some time until the seaplanes had completely disappeared. William had seen him last year at the St. John's courthouse doing reports on Percy Fearn's rather sensational trial for stamp fraud. Poor Percy had gotten two years hard labour in the end, many said because he'd refused to implicate an unscrupulous son who'd sold him the counterfeit De Pinedoes in the first place. Meanwhile, once William had been exonerated in the case of the Museum stamp robberies, he'd made a quick sale of the De Pinedoes in his own possession and, with money to spare, had secured Dulcie's place at school. She'd just completed her first year of high school. He'd learned not to take the power of the humble postage stamp for granted, and had already acquired a number of the specialized print run commemorating the Balbo flight.

William told Dulcie and Leona to go on to the car where he would join them momentarily, and walked toward Albert. “Well, I do believe congratulations are in order,” he called, extracting an envelope from his coat pocket.

Albert snapped out of his reverie and nodded at William's approach. “Really?” he said. “I can't imagine why.”

William removed a block of four Balbo airmails, one of several he'd bought for a song the previous day at the St. John's General Post Office. “Correct me if I'm wrong,” he said, “but didn't they overwrite a 75-cent stamp of your own design to make this latest Newfoundland rarity?” It was true that Albert had done the drawings for the latest issue from the Newfoundland Post Office and that the postmaster general had indeed chosen to overwrite the 75-cent with the inscription: 1933/GEN.BALBO/FLIGHT/$4.50. Still, Albert shrugged, unimpressed. “They won't be nearly as rare or valuable as other airmails; the De Pinedo, for example. By the way, I got wind of your impressive sale to Harmers. Thirty-five hundred for a block of four! I'd have to say congratulations are in order for that.”

“Thank you,” William said, suddenly nervous at the realization of who he was talking to. He'd decided some time ago to say nothing about the provenance of the De Pinedoes that had saved Dulcie's education. He'd let the world assume they were his, but he feared the wily newspaperman in front of him was just clever enough to divine the truth.

Albert's inquisitive, rather suspicious look, along with what he said next, seemed to confirm these fears. “It's a good thing you hung on to those De Pinedoes they gave you as minister. My poor old father-in-law wasn't as wise, I'm afraid. On the day he died, I saw Sir John stuff a block of four into his pocket with his car keys before he left to drive to the Cape Shore. They didn't turn up when they retrieved his body. I've often wondered what became of them.”

William fidgeted about for his pipe and tobacco. Should he come clean and give Sir John his due? He would like to, but was uncertain as to the outcome of such a revelation. He tried desperately to gauge where Albert was trying to steer the conversation.

“I've come to understand you put the money to good use,” Albert added, glancing over William's shoulder to where Leona and Dulcie, hand in hand, were making their way up an embankment toward a small group of parked cars.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I'm a newsman, William,” Albert replied, “and I'm particularly good in political circles. Not much gets by me about what you fellows are up to.”

William rooted nervously in his tobacco pouch to fill the bowl of the pipe. “If only Sir John could know that his stamps were being put to some good use, wouldn't he be happy?” he asked. Albert gave him a reassuring slap on the arm.

“Indeed he would, William,” he said, “as would his entire family.”

William breathed a sigh of relief. “He was a good man, Albert,” he said. “You must miss him still.”

“I miss him every day,” Albert said.

After a respectful pause, William changed the subject. “So you're not too impressed with the Balbo airmail?”

“It's not so much the stamp as the man, William. I've become increasingly sceptical of this wave of Fascist dictators in Europe. Mussolini has already done his share of sabre-rattling and I'm sure we'll be hearing more from the new fellow who just came to power in Germany. On top of that, I don't like their worrisome attitudes towards Jews.”

William lit his pipe with his usual staccato movements, shielding the match flame from the sudden breeze that gusted off the harbour.

“Looks like we're going to have our own little dictatorship here soon,” he said, snapping the flame out with a shake of his hand.

“Government by a six-man commission isn't quite a dictatorship,” Albert replied, “but it's close. I hope it doesn't last too long. Politics is a
messy business at the best of times, but people should have the right to toss out their politicians when they're no longer happy with them.”

“Well, Newfoundlanders must be pretty sick of politicians right now,” said William, “or else they'd rise up and try to stop us from dissolving the legislature this fall.”

“Oh, we'll have our revenge on you soon enough,” Albert said, with a laugh. “We're not a dead country yet.”

“That's right,” said William, calling to mind his conversations with Arthur Duke. “We're still printing our own stamps, right?”

“I do believe you're becoming an expert in philately, William,” said Albert, with mock amazement. He extended his hand. “I won't be buying the Balbo issue myself, on principle, but I still wish you the best of luck in your stamp collecting and in all your endeavours.”

“Thank you, Albert,” William replied, seizing the hand and shaking it warmly. “Good luck to you, as well. Take care of yourself.”

As he walked away, William noticed that Albert stayed behind, alone, staring grimly into the vast emptiness of the sky where moments before the last traces of the Italian airmen had vanished into the clouds.

Later, William and Leona were having tea in Leona's parlour. William looked across at the impenetrable dark eyes and wondered if he saw some possibility there, some hint or glimmer of recognition that after all these years of knowing each other their relationship had deepened and taken on another meaning. He felt it had, but still could see no sign of it in her. Through it all, Leona had guarded her feelings with a sentry-like vigilance.

“What will you do, William,” she asked, “when they shut down the government?”

“Oh, I'm being considered for a couple of appointments,” he said. “After all, I'm the longest serving member of the House now. I should get something for that, if nothing else.”

“Does that mean you'll be staying in St. John's most of the time?”

“Actually, no,” he said. “In fact, I'm having some work done on the house in Placentia this fall. Maybe next spring you and Dulcie can join me there for a cup of tea. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You'll always be welcome there,” he said, and reached across the table to lay his hand on hers in the now familiar gesture. He was surprised when she suddenly turned her hand over and clutched his fingers in hers for a second before letting them go. He tried to catch her gaze, then, but she stared at the floor.

“Thank you, William,” she said.

He was encouraged by this awkward gesture, but still felt helpless at her remoteness and at the silence that so often lay between them. Was there world enough and time to overcome it? One day soon, he resolved, he would simply have tell her how he felt.

“It's best I get going if I'm to be home before dark,” he said. “You'll tell Dulcie I said goodbye?”

“Yes, I will. She won't soon forget this day. I can promise you that.”

“Nor will I. Goodbye, Leona.”

He picked his hat up from the settle and headed out the door.

Leona watched the dust settle long after William's black Model T had disappeared into the trees. Their parting had been awkward, as usual. With him, there was always a sense of things unspoken. She owed him so much, yet still struggled to say her thanks out loud. To do so might risk displaying the deeper feelings she could not bring herself to reveal. She was glad that, today, she had at least tried. A month or two would pass now before she saw him again. It seemed too long a time and something inside her faded into sadness with the settling of dust and the dying clatter of his engine against the green hills.

She waved to Dulcie who was standing in knee rubbers in a shallow part of the river. The maturing young woman had apparently decided that trouting wasn't such an unseemly practice after all, and she was back to trolling regularly in the brook with her alder pole, the slender gad filling slowly with fish as it lay near her on the bank. Her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, her white teeth flashed against her tanned skin when she smiled and waved back. A fine young woman, Leona thought, and filled once more with pride at the sight of her.

Dulcie had three years left in school and, then, who knew what would happen? She might well stay in Halifax among her deaf friends. Leona saw the rightness of that, but dreaded the thought of being left in Knock Harbour all alone. Maybe she would move back to Three Brooks or even to Placentia. Who knew? Uncertainty didn't trouble her much any more. Thanks to William, she had once again come to believe that good things could happen in the world. He had helped her more that even he understood. He was very much in her thoughts as she strolled into the kitchen. It filled with a red glow as the crimson ball of fire slipped carefully into the sea.

She was still smiling softly at the thought of him when she heard the drone of a car engine approaching in the distance.

I owe a note of thanks to the following organizations: The Centre for Newfoundland Studies at Memorial University, The Provincial Archives of Newfoundland and Labrador, The Public Archives of Nova Scotia, The Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council, The City of St. John's, The Banff Centre, The Writers' Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador.

For mentoring, advice and editorial assistance along the way I want to thank Paul Bowdring, Paul Butler, Stan Dragland, Adriana Maggs, and Bernice Morgan. Special thanks to Ed Kavanagh for his skillful final edit.

I read and collected many fine Newfoundland books in the course of my research. Particularly helpful was
Politics in Newfoundland
by S.J.R. Noel, as well as
Eighty-Four Years a Newfoundlander
by William J. Browne. Also helpful was
Postage Stamps and Postal History of Newfoundland
by Winthrop S. Boggs.

When the Mind Hears
by Harlan Lane and
I See A Voice
by Jonathan Rée were useful in acquiring information about deaf history, culture and modes of perception.

Mr. John C. Perlin was kind enough to make available material from a personal archive.

The story elements in this novel are derived largely from Newfoundland history and from the folklore of Newfoundland's Cape Shore. However, I am principally indebted to my late mother, Elizabeth Rowe, whose personal experience of growing up deaf in Newfoundland in the early twentieth century and whose attendance at the Halifax School for the Deaf from 1926 to 1932 provided both the inspiration and motivation for this work.

A final word of thanks to Donna Francis at Creative Book Publishing.