Blackstrap Hawco (26 page)

When the bishop was done, he wiped at his lips, watching Rose's face which was turned in profile, and passed passive comment, ‘There is no greater person than a mother.' Then he crooked his head to sup from the other breast. ‘There is no purer joy than milk from a woman. Udders no different from a cow's, yet sacred, the balance, the heft, not profane, yet the spirit.' Quizzically, he searched Rose's eyes, as though she were a perfect stranger to him, not of his world, then fed upon her again.

Rose watched toward the door, cringing through the ordeal and wishing it would only come to an end. Another man. One like any other.
She feared that God might strike them both dead. Tears pooled in her eyes, for now it seemed that the Lord himself, rather than being removed from the lewd proceedings, was savaging her. She wept at the thought that came into her mind and could not be vanquished, only made more sacrilegious as the bishop continued.

Done with his feasting, the bishop lost no time wiping the milk from his moustache. At once, he turned Rose around and led her nearer the corner. There, he bent her forward and raised her skirts, leaning to the side to ensure that her udders were hanging in a pendulous fashion. Again, he lowered his mouth, licking and sucking between the warm mound from which creation had recently sprung. As suspected, the smell of her was ambrosial, the heat invigorating and inciting. He worked with dedication until his entire face was soaked and gleaming. Standing, he quickly freed himself from his garments before freely taking her from behind.

Rose felt nothing. At that point, her eyes went dead. It was not her sight that was obliterated, but her willingness to see, her mouth, her nose, her face withdrawn to a place where she herself might never be found. She became a shadow masked by greater shadows. It was only her ears that experienced sensation. The grunting thrust from the bishop's throat and, hopefully, disturbingly, the far-off cry of a baby on the ship. The bishop, too, must have heard, for he paused long enough to let silence fall over the room. And there it was, singular, exact, fragile, the cry of a baby, her baby, Catherine.

The ship afloat on the dark water. Anchored off shore. Beneath a bright, round moon. A single baby's cry hovering over the bay.

The bishop returned to his rhythmic jabbing, the music of tiny voices playing through his mind. He rammed Rose forward again and again, while panic and hope filled Rose's heart.

The bishop muttered words that Rose could not discern, yet, once repeated, became clearer, ‘What do you hear?'

Rose said nothing, her mouth plugged black, while her ears strained to hear and her eyes searched the wall before her, as though seeking a hole that might deliver her nearer the sound.

‘Tell me,
striapach
.'

She would not say it. Could not for him.

‘Beyond these walls, within the bowels of this ship, we keep those born wicked.
Striapach.
We know. The newest sing the loudest. That bastard baby of yours, I know. Where there are flames there is salvation.' And with that his momentum intensified until Rose felt she might be injured by the widening and lengthening of his plunge. She braced a hand against the wall, her sweaty palm slipping in distress. ‘What is it? Tell me, now. Tell me.'

‘A baby,' Rose whispered, her throat thick with a sob, tears warming her eyes back to life. ‘My
babaí
.'

‘Yes,' he said, the pitch of his voice crescendoing. ‘Have another that will never know you.' And he pounded her violently, as though to murder not her body, but the thought of her, and stopped, holding himself still, yet straining, his essence stretching away from its centre, into her aching, contracting womb.

 

The Duncans settled well with the society of merchants in St. John's, maintaining a lifestyle much similar to the one they were accustomed to prior to being disgraced back in Liverpool. Uncle Ace Hawco, on his return from the sealing grounds, took action against the merchant, Mr. Bowering, in a way that was talked about for decades after the fact and even immortalized in the memoir of William Coaker, founder of the Fishermen's Protective Union, who cited Ace Hawco for his exemplary bravery.

1926

St. John's, Newfoundland amp; Bareneed

The Duncans settle in

‘Shall I save the Daily Dot Puzzle?' Amanda called up the stairway that inclined toward the second storey, the pitch of her voice and the chandelier light muted by dark polished wooden walls. Glancing down at the newspaper in hand, she considered Mutt and Jeff, then Snoodles, smiling mildly. Eyes still lingering. ‘Emily?'

‘Yes,' the sound of the young girl's voice hollering out in frustration from the labour of a strenuous task. ‘I'm changing my clothes, Mummy.'

‘Alright. I'll hold it for you.' Amanda turned for the parlour doorway, directly across from the foot of the stairs, and entered the room. She sat on the low-back green velvet divan. Resting one hand on the carved armrest, her fingers traced the wooden grooves while she thought of Emily and the extra attention she was directing toward her daughter lately. She was attempting to cope. Again, last night, Alan did not return
home, but telephoned to say he would be in meetings at the Newfoundland Hotel all evening. Try as she might to avoid dwelling on it, she could not help but imagine the specifics of those meetings.

Fading back to the present, Amanda studied the advertisements for the movies, noting the new John Barrymore picture show. A sea picture. Alan would certainly be willing to see that one. The man of adventure. The dashing John Barrymore fleeing England under the cover of night. Now, there would be a movie truly worth seeing. John Barrymore shuddering and snivelling with fear. Checking further down the page, she sighted an advertisement for the new electric ranges.
The Electric Age is here
. She wondered what this might mean. Reading quietly, ‘Before the rush begins have your electric range installed.' She thought it might be a novel idea and made a mental note to ask Alan if it would be within their means to purchase one. They seemed to have an abundance of money lately, contrary to what she expected when fleeing Liverpool. They had settled in a much grander home with an expansive back yard and lovely mature maple trees that cast down wonderful shadows in the summer sunlight.

Presently, she wondered how Alan would react to her request for the range. He would probably just brush it off with some cynical remark about new corrupt devices before carrying on about his latest golf game at Baly Haly Country Club or with a story from one of the prominent city merchants.

To ensure the purchase of the electric range, it would mean catching Alan at the pinnacle of guilt. He was such a despicable man at times. She invested no faith nor trust in his judgement and resolutely believed he would fail again. Alan failed consistently and miserably in business, until learning a few of the merchant tricks and catching on with regards to the proper way to cheat the local fishermen out of their bounteous catches. Hearing him talk with the other merchants, bragging about taking advantage of the inbred stupidity of the lowly locals – mostly Irishmen, boghoppers as he called them – gave her a sickly feeling, a soul-embracing nudge of disgust at her husband's malicious stab at self-esteem. She was in no way proud of him. No respect for him. Yet leaving would mean what? How would she support herself? The arrangement was fine as it stood, but she longed for a true lover. A man who spoke of matters of the heart and head. Valentino. A film of his was the coming attraction.

Amanda drew a mental picture of the houses along Circular Road, the stately three-storey Victorian structures owned by prominent businessmen, doctors and judges. The Crosbies. The Hickmans. The Bairds. The Jobs. The Woodfords. All with elaborate front drives, an entry and an exit. Alan must have stolen quite a substantial sum of money from the people back in Liverpool to afford this sort of luxury. While she found the thought distasteful, it intrigued her in a peculiar way, for the thoughts of misappropriated opulence surrounding them. It was almost possible to forgive her husband, ignore him, focus on playing up his smart points, for the sake of her family, so that Emily might continue to belong to the proper circle of friends.

Amanda had been invited to tea with the Hickmans on the following Tuesday, and each of the children in the area had responded favourably to invitations to Emily's tenth birthday party. There was a ceaseless string of invitations to tea parties or bridge games. If she accepted every overture she would never be at home. And there was work with the various committees that sent clothes and blankets to the outports. Several of her new friends, wives of prominent merchants, seemed to be working themselves to death on behalf of the poor outport people. They had the whole top floor of the Newfoundland Hotel donated to their use plus a large packing and storage room in the basement. They also were working in concert with the rugged Nonia nurses who single-handedly tended to huge areas of outports, as there were no doctors available. One of the latest projects Amanda was involved in was packaging and shipping seeds to the Nonia nurses who were helping people dig and set gardens around their houses so they could, at least, grow a crop of vegetables. Presently, beriberi was a plague on the island. And just last month there had been the fire at Mt. Cashel Orphanage. They were raising money for the reconstruction. It was such a deserving project. The priests there were absolute miracle workers, so devoted and saintly.

‘How's this, Mum?' Emily stood prettily at the edge of the room. Turning in a circle, she then gracefully bowed, holding the edges of her new blue velvet dress, the collar trimmed with cream lace.

‘Oh, absolutely beautiful, darling.' Amanda laid the paper to one side and gestured with her hands. ‘Come here. Let me see.'

When the child stepped nearer, Amanda fussed with the dress,
straightening it along her daughter's waist. Then she observed Emily, her eyes filled with worship, yet not without the vagueness of a wound. ‘Ten years old tomorrow.' She bit her bottom lip. ‘You can see the woman in your face already.'

‘My first real party dress.' Emily spun around, her black curls rising and then settling on her shoulders when she halted.

‘I was just reading that
Rin Tin Tin
is playing at the Nickel Theatre.'

‘This dress is too smart for that place.'

‘Then maybe
Biff, Bing, Bang
.'

‘Is that theatre?' she asked grandly.

‘Umm, not really. Well, I guess.' Amanda blinked at the advertisement. ‘Twenty-five big numbers in their sensational overseas review.'

‘I'll just save it for parties.'

‘And
The Sea Beast
is playing. Your father likes John—'

Her words were cut short by the sound of the front door opening. Both Emily and Amanda turned their heads to see Alan returning. According to his attire, he had come from a golf game, his cap and baggy trousers making him the picture of provincial fashion. He stepped into the parlour doorway, his face showing off the highlights of an afternoon's sunning. He smiled at them in a way that betrayed time spent in the lounge. Amanda's expression fell, but Emily's remained bright as she proudly spun around for him.

‘Let me see,' Alan said, tipping back his hat and stepping nearer. Bending to her, a smell of perfume and alcohol wafted into the space between him and his wife.

‘You're absolutely beautiful,' Alan told his daughter, setting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I've brought you something.' He reached into his pocket and extracted a wooden hair clasp, the wood deep and polished.

‘Thank you.' Emily took it from him, holding it in her hands.

With his eyes on the clasp, Alan reached forward and pulled a long hair from within its teeth. It took a while and he offhandedly put the hair in his pocket. ‘One of mine must have got caught in it when I was trying it on.' He made a clown's mouth with his lips and kissed her wetly on the cheek. ‘No truer beauty than you.'

The flowery haze of perfume that clung to her husband wilted Amanda's attempt at a smile, filling her with contempt.

‘Isn't she just perfect?' Alan said, addressing his wife, his booze-soft afternoon eyes sighting her sickened expression, and his face gradually mirrored his wife's displeasure. As was characteristic of his position in such matters, he recovered quickly. Sniffed and seemed to think ahead of other possibilities.

Taking this for the sign of admission Amanda had come to recognize, she rose to her feet, glaring at him.
Everything shows so easily in his face
, she silently raged, scolding herself for not having known him, truly known him before accepting his proposal of marriage. Her father had warned her. Her father had seen Alan for what he truly was.

‘How was your golf game?' she asked spitefully, before marching from the room.

‘Excellent,' Alan called out, as though to the entire house, following her step with his eyes from where he remained crouched beside his daughter, his tanned hands weakening on Emily's shoulders.

‘Mummy?'

Amanda hurried toward the broad stairway and up the carpeted steps, away from Alan, his failures and betrayals, away from his deception, his smirking sense of courage that always faltered on his lips and in the face of the slightest adversity. It was forever more about himself. Him and his wants, his strength in drink, his weakness.

Emily shifted her gaze to her father, her eyes filled more with uncertainty than the previous giving pleasure of love. She leaned away from him, recognizing the smell on his breath. The trouble smell. Sweet and ugly at once.

‘Are you off to a party?' Alan asked hopefully.

‘No,' Emily flatly replied, her eyes on the hair clasp.

Another hair there, Alan noticed, yet refused to remove it. ‘Then why the dress?' At once, Alan's tone adopted a hint of aggravation, things not going his way from the moment he entered the room. The mood against him. The two women in his family against him, always against him, despite the fact that he had saved them from ruination. Saved the little girl from a life of wretchedness. He considered storming from the house to rejoin his boisterous friends at the club, some of them with their young sons and daughters who he often played games with out on the grounds. High from the effects of afternoon cocktails, he had left Baly
Haly early to be with his family, but his family had soured his mood. He realized that he was staring at his daughter. At the moment of his realization, she rushed off after her mother.

Alan rose from his crouch, stood for a moment in the empty parlour, then headed for the front door. Hand on the porch doorknob, he paused to look back at the staircase, to where Emily was racing away from him. Such a grand staircase, the banister carved exquisitely.

Show 'im wha' feel'n means

The
Terra Nova
sailed into St. John's harbour with the hides and fat of 22,529 seals in its belly, and the bodies of eighteen dead laid out frozen on its deck. It had been a prosperous year for those who never perished, with each surviving crew member receiving the unexpectedly great sum of $107.12.

A murmur briskly mounted toward a cheer that went up from the waiting crowd as the vessel cleared the north side of the cliff-framed narrows and edged into view. The crowd had heard in advance the news of prosperity, the information wired ahead. The
Terra Nova
would be the highliner after all, under the capable hands of the legendary Captain Abram Kane.

Positioned on the harbourfront, among the crowds shouting their welcome, the illustrious president of Bowering Brothers himself stood in fur coat and with a great prosperous smile that widened as the ship neared the dock, and the lines were tossed down to the men who secured them around the wooden gumps.

At once, the sealers strode down the gangway as they glanced out over the crowd, some of them smiling, accepting the warmness of the welcome, while others carefully held the rope railing to either side of them, and watched flatly, with ruined eyes. Only a semblance of themselves.

With feet firmly on land, the men wandered off, as though to claim shelter from those who might be seeking them, or meet loved ones – wives and children – who expressed their delight with hugs and kisses,
and anxiously put forth questions regarding the details of the journey.

The joyous clamour built and remained vibrant with much celebration, until the noise slowly began to diminish. One by one, heads turned to see what had silenced their neighbour. A hush, like a string of crystal ice forming over water, wove itself through the crowd. On the gangway, a grotesque grey slab of cargo, then another, was being carried toward the dock, one man at the head, another at the feet. The crowd spread away, making a path to allow the bodies to be loaded onto the waiting carriages. The crowd watched in respectful silence, a woman squeezing a husband's hand, a child hugging tight to a father's ragged jacket as the bodies were carefully slid aboard the carriages. Even the gulls seemed to have vacated the sky and the water cease lapping at the dock.

When the last of the ice-twisted dead had been taken off ship, a lone man appeared at the top of the gangway, a man with a look that saw, yet knew of little beyond the flash of movement, the colours, the bodies, the noise. The bandage wound around his chest was evident through the rips in the front of his shirt that fluttered in the bite of March gusts.

It was passed around among the crowd, by the men who had been aboard, that that man, Uncle Ace Hawco, had survived because his blood had frozen. The cold had been so fierce that the wound had sealed itself in an icy web over a pool of red that you could later poke your finger through. The blood beneath it. Freezing deeper, closer, thickening the clot. Yet what had brought him such an injury had remained a mystery. These words spoken back and forth and changed and rearranged and added to and taken from, while Uncle Ace Hawco listlessly trod down that gangway with a look of misunderstanding, as though the crowd were a new curiosity to him.