Silent Time (7 page)

At the bottom of the lane he turned sharply right onto the road leading to the bridge. He felt an urge to smoke now and stopped to fill his pipe. He struck the match and covered it protectively with his hand as he sucked the yellow triangle of flame down into the bowl. He always lit his pipe in the same way, indoors or out, with swift, deliberate movements that suggested he was standing in a strong wind. He certainly was this day, so he clutched his collar to his throat and felt the wind's heft against him as he walked toward the bridge. Once there, he leaned for a moment against the railing and looked out to sea.

The run-off from the barrens beyond the treeline formed the wide brook that accumulated here into a fair-sized pond. Its waters finally regained the ocean through the Knock Harbour gut. William saw the white curl of waves riding to shore beyond the barachois. He heard their distant tumble as an occasional splash, like white spit, leapt above the rocks into his view.

He turned toward the spruce-covered hills that enclosed him on three sides. There were seven or eight saltbox houses in the valley, along with some grey weathered outbuildings, railing fences and rock-filled meadows matted today with dead grass. The little church-school was the only building with a difference. It had six small, but ornate, windows, and a steep, slanted roof bearing a thin white cross at the peak. The little cross struck him as incredibly brave or ridiculous, he couldn't decide which, confronting that restless expanse of ocean.

The church-school was, of course, empty today. There was no priest for Mass here on Easter Sunday. The children, like him, were on holidays, but
it would have been unseemly to have them out running around. They were, no doubt, sitting forcibly at home. William was aware, as well, that besides having only intermittent visits from a priest, Knock Harbour was obliged to share a teacher with Sheep Cove, a two-mile walk along the hilly Cape Shore Road. To be fair to the children who must walk to school every day, the teacher resided in each place for five months of the school year. William was moved whenever he saw a slow parade of youngsters making its way up one of the steep Cape Shore hills. They'd have their cloth book bags hanging about their necks, and wooden lunch pails swinging at their sides, on their way to receive what little education the government provided in remote places like this.

He turned to the westward again where the wide generous valley opened to the sea. Then he took a narrow rocky path over the side of the road and under the bridge. Once out of the wind, he closed his eyes and listened to the echoic rippling of the river. He sighed and was startled to hear it amplified into a despairing groan.

He was forty-two years old, sociable enough on the surface of things, but essentially a solitary and lonely man. To many, he had been an impractical dreamer in his youth, one who'd squandered his so-called marriageable years in the unprofitable pursuits of mining and agriculture. The assessment had seemed painfully accurate, considering the abandoned farmhouses, fallow fields, and crumbling mine shafts that had followed him into middle age. Worst of all, though, was his failed marriage to Maria Downs. The Placentia girl had strong English roots and, unlike the others, had, at first, been quite taken with his adventurous ways. But when it became clear that he was no Cecil Rhodes and that Newfoundland would prove a great deal more covetous of her treasures than the African subcontinent, she grew violently disillusioned and left him after two unhappy, mercifully childless years. Afterwards, he heard that she would not suffer his name to be spoken in her presence. She had since married auspiciously and moved to England. He had not responded well to the episode. Subsequently, even after he had achieved a certain amount of success, women continued to baffle and frustrate him with their seemingly unrelenting material and social needs.

Despite all that, his adventuring in mining and agriculture had eventually brought him some success through a career in politics. That turn of events came about due to an unlikely meeting which occurred fourteen years ago this month. It was with the man who, back then, was soon to become the next prime minister of Newfoundland.

Back in April of 1909, William was seated one night at a table in the Star of the Sea Hall in Placentia regaling a group of men with the self-effacing story of his most recent misadventure, a failed silver mine up the Glen's Cove River, when a rush of whispers suddenly ran through the room and then settled into a deep quiet. William turned in his chair and saw a clinging entourage of mostly local politicians surrounding Edward Morris, a tall man with a drooping moustache and large slippery eyes that surveyed the smoke-filled room. Morris held an elegant ivory-handled walking stick and the tallest, shiniest, blackest funnel of a top hat that William had ever seen. The visiting politician nodded to the crowded room, then, refraining from the occasion to make a speech, disappeared into the games room at the far end of the hall. William glimpsed the private room's round oak table and bright green carpets before the door closed on the exclusive gathering. He imagined that the aspiring prime minister had settled into a meeting with his cabal of political hopefuls, and was surprised therefore when Captain Thomas Bonia had tapped him on the shoulder. In the last election Bonia had been Morris's only successful candidate in the three-member district of Placentia-St. Mary's. “Cantwell,” he said, indicating the games room with a nod, “Mr. Morris would like to have a chat with you.”

William was like to fall out of his chair. He grinned uncertainly at the fellows at his table, who, considering he'd just given them their entertainment for the last hour, rather unfairly gave him a grudging send-off. He stopped outside the door and pawed at his hair for a moment, then realized there was really no way to make himself presentable. At the last second, he remembered to haul his suspenders onto his shoulders before he entered the room. He found Morris, alone, seated in a large leather chair that had no doubt been acquired specifically for him. The other men appeared to have left by a second door. William noted the robust colour in Morris's cheeks and silently watched him warm a snifter of brandy in the cradle of his hand. Morris looked up and gave him a quick smile, then stared seriously into the brandy for a while and occasionally took a perfunctory sniff.

Once he'd finally nodded William into a seat, Morris spoke through his walrus-like moustache. “Placentia-St. Mary's is a three-seat riding, Cantwell, and the People's Party needs all three this time if I'm going to give Bond the heave-ho once and for all.”

A recent election between Sir Robert Bond's Liberals and Morris's People's Party had ended with 18 seats going to each party. A tie-breaking election was set for the fall. William knew that Morris must be desperately
hungry for victory, but still could not divine why the man, who might soon be prime minister, had summoned him to a private meeting.

Morris, typically, it seemed to William, got right to the point.

“This may come as something of a surprise to you, Cantwell, but I want you to be one of my men in Placentia-St. Mary's.”

William thought again that he might keel over and his hands tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. He couldn't be sure he'd properly understood this statement, so he endured an uncomfortable silence trying to think of something to say.

Morris threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, you're speechless, eh, Cantwell? Well, I hope that won't last for long. I'm hoping you'll be making lots of speeches soon. Captain Bonia tells me you're quite the talker and can spin a good yarn. I'll wager you were doing most of the talking at that table out there before I arrived and stole your thunder.” Morris chuckled at this, took a quick sniff and, finally, swallowed a nip of the brandy.

“I like to have a laugh,” William said, thinking immediately how undignified that sounded. But Morris found nothing wrong with the statement; indeed, he did William one better.

“What's more,” he said, “you like to laugh at yourself.” He jabbed a finger at William. “The Irish character approves of a man who can do that and there's no district on the island more Irish than this one; nor Catholic either, for that matter.” Morris thrust a meaningful finger at him. “You're going to have to step up your attendance at church, at least while you're still living here. Once you get to St. John's you can do as you please.”

This flurry was also a little too much for William to take in, though he noted the assumption that he'd already accepted Morris's proposal. But Morris surprised him by continuing with a note of humility.

“You'll be doing me and the country a service if you accept this offer,” he said.

“But why me, Mr. Morris?” William asked. “I don't have a scrap of political experience. What makes you think I can win a seat for you here?”

Morris quickly grabbed the upper hand again.

“You'll win because you're on my ticket, Cantwell, make no mistake about that. But I think you're the right man for the job because of the work I hear you've been doing this last number of years.”

William thought the surprises would never end. “Do you mean my efforts at prospecting and farming?” He laughed a little self-consciously.

“Mining and agriculture, Cantwell. From now on it's mining and agriculture. You're the only person in this area – hell, practically in the whole
country – with wide experience in both fields. Now, you should know that a key plank in my platform is the addition of several branch-lines to the railway.”

William was aware of this and of the heavy criticism that had been levelled at the idea by Bond and the Liberals, who felt it would be an unnecessary drain on the public purse.

“The people are crying out for those branch-lines, Cantwell, and I intend to build them no matter what the cost. I need you to talk about the mineral wealth of this country and how an expanded railway system will give us access to it. Plus, everyone seems to be interested in agriculture these days and you've got that covered, as well. The Liberals haven't got a man with your experience in either field. Now, we'll shout it from the rooftops that if you win this seat I'll make you my Minister of Mines and Agriculture. That should make you a shoe-in on my ticket. I'll go out with you on the first few campaign stops and show you the ropes. Then you're on your own. Okay, Cantwell?”

“I'm ready to serve my country, sir,” William said, “if you'll have me.” He pleased himself with this high-sounding reply, but Morris again brought him back to earth.

“Shame we can't do anything about your name, though, isn't it? Cant-well? Doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it? The last thing we want is some nasty little slogan cropping up: William-Can't-Very-Well, or some such thing. Hopefully, nobody will notice if we don't draw attention to it. Still, you'd do well to go by William, or Will, or even Willie; cultivate the common touch.”

William smiled uncertainly and, again, said nothing. He decided not to take offence at this bandying about of his family name. After all, the man had just hand-picked him for a major public office.

“You, like me, are a self-made man and a Catholic,” Morris continued. “That's the message you must keep repeating. Sir Robert Bond is an aristocrat and a Protestant. You want people to imagine Bond prancing around his Whitbourne estate on horseback in jodhpurs and holding a riding crop. How can he possibly understand their lives? See what I mean?”

He leaned back in the sumptuous chair for what seemed like one final assessment of William. He nodded almost imperceptibly to himself to signal his satisfaction and lifted the cover off a crystal brandy decanter.

“Now, have a drink with me, Cantwell, to seal the deal. Then we'll bring the others back in here and get right to work. What do you say?”

William assented and Morris poured the brandy.

William took no comfort in the recollection. He watched the dark water swirl into little eddies and curl into small white plumes against the rocks. Its easy flow drew from him a deep longing to be at peace. It was five years now since the Great War ended, but he wrestled daily with its cruel lessons and its awful conclusions.

He used to believe in some mystic sense of order, in progress. Now he saw everything as random and unrelated, progress as an illusion. He bitterly recalled the heralding of a new age which had taken place at the turn of the century, the predictions of unprecedented harmony, especially among the nations in Europe. In little more than a decade those very nations fought the bloodiest war in history. The war to end all wars? Armageddon? No, he didn't believe in that nonsense any more, either.

He felt so little hope for the world now, convinced it would go on creating as yet inconceivable horrors. No amount of suffering would ever redeem it. That's why the little cross on the school looked so helpless in its pathetic hungering for souls. He believed the ocean's appetite was the sharper of the two and that it would, in the end, extract the greater toll. If Jesus had truly died to save the world, he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

Happy Easter. April Fool's.

A renewed surge of bitterness and self-loathing took hold of him, as he recalled how, with Morris's urging, he'd wholeheartedly supported the war effort. He'd visited tiny settlements along the coast conducting spirited recruitment drives, stirring up patriotic fervour with his impassioned talk of King and Country. Even when the enormous casualty lists began appearing daily in the papers, he'd pushed his misgivings aside and carried on. But when he'd finally made his official visits to the homes of the bereaved, his deep voice, his well-known humour, his newly learned oratory failed him entirely. His attempts at consolation sounded ever more hollow and meaningless as the killing raged, and he soon fell into a shameful, embarrassed silence before the mothers and fathers whose sons, thanks in part to him, would never return from the war.