What follows is a chapter from a book I will likely never publish. Such is life. We we all meant to be great. But we all wont be. ______________________ A Good Anglican Boy The Captain sucked in a sharp breath as he walked Ma and me to the yard, stopping at the bottom step of the boarding house. “All will be well, Mary. I wish you and the boy luck.” He placed his hands briefly on mother’s shoulders then turned away. After eight long weeks of barging through ice floes and rough seas, it was the last we’d see of the man who rescued us from the islands and delivered us here to our new lives. “Knock on the door, Ma. See who’s in there”. She rapped lightly then lowered her gaze to her feet. The door creaked open. “Can I be of help to ye, Miss?” A portly woman greeted us, her breasts falling out of the bodice of her dingy blouse, her cheeks and lips red. She smelled bad. “I’m not certain. Captain Havenly took me here. Said we’d be safe, my boy and me. We’re alone now. Come from the Bay of Islands. Come a long way”. There was no need to explain that we had no home. “Come in with ye both” she nodded. “Come straight away and ‘ave some ‘ot tea and tell us all about yeselves”. Entering the kitchen I could smell the earthy aroma of tea leaves and perfumes and burning wood. A round woman sat motionless in a rocking chair, hands pressed on her knees, head hung over her pinafore. Her bare feet jutted out from beneath the muddied hem of her skirt. She blended into the faded wallpaper behind her. I had not seen wall paper before. Another lady entered from the parlour, arms wide and ready to hug the newcomers. She was younger, and cleaner and had smaller bosoms. “Ah! Lookee ‘ere! What a sweet young man ye ‘ave. Come, come lad and ‘ave some hard bread. Call me Marge”. For the first time in weeks my muscles relaxed. I didn’t understand how we were to fit into it this place but I knew was home now. By the end of the day I had met the four women who lived here, including Anne who was soaked into the wallpaper, rocking distantly in her kitchen chair, and her boy, Little Jimmy. Little Jimmy didn’t look like other kids. Everything about him seemed small, except for those parts that seemed too big. His miniature eyes were vacant, even when he played with the tin soldier his mother kept safe in her pocket. They were round and set far apart across the flat bridge of his nose. His upper lip sloped down like a small hill, situated just too far away from his nostrils which seemed too small to breathe through. And Jimmy, himself, was only as big as a trout. I took him to be about five years old but later learned we were the same age. We played outside in the muddied back garden when we could and he was good company even though he didn’t speak much, just sometimes to himself. It was hard to tell whether he was happy or sad, or felt anything at all. In the evenings, we were whisked away to our rooms on the third floor with its slanted ceilings that hugged us in the darkness. Though the room was large and nearly empty, I moved my bedding next to Jimmy’s and kept him close, playing with his soldier on the floor beside me. We played until the light no longer shone through the window, then we just lay awake listening to the big voices below; sometimes music drowned out the voices. . Many evenings, I hid behind the dirty cotton curtain to peek through the dormer window to see who was coming and going. Sometimes they carried bottles and other times packages wrapped in brown paper. Mostly they were men, except for the ladies of the Temperance Society who came to hammer notices to our front door. Our bedroom was cold but eventually each night we would fall to sleep, I, wrapped in my wool blanket and Little Jimmy, curled up beside me like a kitten. And each morning we awoke to the cool promise of Spring as the wind gathered herself up from the northeastern arm of the Avalon Peninsula and blew across the dingy city. One morning I took a notice down that the Temperance Society ladies had left showed it to Marge, asking her what it said. “You can’t read, son?” Marge questioned. Ma’s face turned red. “No schools on the island” she said quietly.”No books neither”. I was enrolled in school soon after. Marge, who was in charge of things, marched me through the streets of St. John’s; I had never seen so many people and couldn’t get enough of studying the faces moving ceaselessly through the cod-metropolis. . “This ‘ere is Ephraim, a good Catholic boy”, Marge said formally to Sister Eugenia. “E’ll be attending school now, arriving well fed and dressed proper” she continued as she pressed something into Sister’s bony hand. One day, Jimmy came to school, too, holding my hand as we trailed behind the stiffly-marching Marge to the school door. “This is Little Jimmy”, Marge announced to Sister Eugenia. “A good Catholic boy. ‘As lots in his belly”. I wasn’t sure why the condition of our bellies was of interest to anyone. Jimmy did not take to his desk and preferred the floor, mumbling to his fingers. I think school made him sad. He was given slate and chalk on which he made a web of marks in his own special language. Several times a day I heard his name thrown through the air like an ice ball. “Jimmy!”, Sister Eugenia would screech. “Jimmy! Attend what you are doing!” she’d shriek, yanking him by the shirt collar, propping up to his feet. After about two weeks of proper education, Sister grabbed Jimmy’s hand and warned the rest of us to read the Good Book until she returned. But I followed behind out of sight as she dragged the scrawny boy up the muddy hill, he tripping on his own feet. “This child can’t learn!” Sister Eugenia announced in the doorway. “Hasn’t the brain the Good Lord gave a seal! He doesn’t belong in school. There’s nothing I can for him. Keep him home.” The stack of bones turned on her heel and snapped her head to attention, parading back the way she had come, I knew for sure Jimmy was smarter than a seal for back on the islands I had seen them look up into my father’s eyes and wait to be clubbed on the head. “A fine Catholic wench! Ugly as a hen’s arse!” “Who does she think she is! Little Jimmy can learn.” “ You never mind that woman, Annie. Is _she_ who cannot teach!” “Little Jimmy is as bright as a new copper. Just ‘as his special ways, is all” Annie pulled Jimmy onto to her fat lap, his small head pressed to her bosom. “Is Ok, James. The Good Lord has something better in store. Now, now” she soothed, although Jimmy didn’t seem bothered by his abrupt withdrawal from school, nor by the evaluation of his intelligence. “There, there”, she patted, “have as sip”, she crooned, tipping the tin cup to his lips. The other women began to busy themselves, their backs turned to the grotesque sight of mother and child. I still stood in the doorway watching this rocking scene unfold as Annie shared drinks from her tarnished cup until the boy fell to sleep on her shoulder. One heavy tear rolled down Annie’s wrinkled face. I felt like my heart was bleeding, but I didn’t know why. “Come”, Ma demanded when she noticed me there. The sun was still in the afternoon sky but she commanded me to my bedroom. “No supper tonight.” My face flushed hot as I retreated to my room and I fell asleep crying, still in my clothes. When I woke in the blackness I felt around for Jimmy but he wasn’t there curled up next to me like a kitten. I picked up his soldier and tiptoed on the cold floors to peek into Annie’s room. Except for the sickly perfume, there was no sign of her. I descended the narrow stairs expecting to see them rocking in their chair, but it was empty. In fact, there was no one to be seen. I sat in their chair and waited by the cold fireplace and nodded off. The dim glow of the morning light shot through the kitchen as the back door creaked open and the ladies scuttled in, wiping their dirty hands against their frocks. I looked at Ma but she opened her lips and said nothing. My throat felt as though I had swallowed and stone that got stuck half-way down. “Time for school” Marge chirped too cheerfully. “I’m not going. I’m never going back there, full belly or not!” I protested. “Ye are correct, lad. Never going back there. Ye have good sense.” After an unusually large breakfast of pickled pork, Marge led me down the path, right past Sister Eugenia’s to a small wooden structure tucked between the black smith’s and a bakery. One hand held Marge’s and the other was deep in my pocket, clutching the tiny tin soldier. “Good day to ye, Miss Frances. This is Ephraim, a good Anglican boy. E’ll be attending school ‘ere and will arrive each day with a full belly”. She pressed something into the palm of the school Mistress’s hand. “The lad knows his way home” she concluded as she nodded, turned about and left. “Welcome, Ephraim”, the Mistress smiled as she tucked something into her pocket.
Posted on: Sun, 31 Aug 2014 04:32:37 +0000
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