The Birth House (8 page)

10

Tales from New Zealand

A
delightful gathering was held Saturday-last at the home of the Widow Simone Bigelow in Scots Bay. Residents of the Bay included Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Jeffers and their daughter, Precious, Miss Marie Babineau and Miss Dora Rare, as well as Masters Archer and Hart Bigelow, sons of the gracious hostess. As the highlight of the evening, Professor John Payzant, brother of Mrs. Bigelow, shared tales and treasures from his days in New Zealand. He has been visiting from Halifax during the winter holidays. Special guests from Canning were the Reverend Covert Norton and Dr. and Mrs. Gilbert Thomas, who were happy to say that the weather was quite fine and the sleighing good for their visit to the Bay.

The Canning Register,
January 15, 1917

A
UNT
F
RAN MAY HAVE
married into her share of money, but the Widow Simone Bigelow is by far the wealthiest woman in the Bay, and in many ways the saddest. Descended from Marie Payzant, the Widow Bigelow inherited the legendary Huguenot woman’s poor luck in keeping husbands. Married first at fifteen, she lost Mr. James Rafuse within one month of their wedding. He fell off the roof of a neighbour’s barn. Another suitor, a Mr. Samuel Huntley, was thrown from his horse on his way to the Union church only minutes before they were to be wed. At twenty, she married Captain William Bigelow. They settled down in the grandest house in the town of Parrsboro, where she soon after gave birth to a son, Hart Payzant Bigelow. Three years later, Captain William Bigelow sailed to the West Indies on the schooner
Fidelity
and never returned. As luck would have it, William Bigelow had a brother, a Captain Fitzgerald Bigelow, who was in need of a wife. At twenty-four, Simone married again. The new Captain Bigelow, however, was not about to live in his brother’s house, in his brother’s town, with his brother’s wife, no matter how remarkable she proved to be. Since
all things being equal
was Simone’s family motto, and since this marriage did not require her to change her name, she didn’t feel that she should have to change her standard of living either. The day after the wedding, she locked her child and herself inside the house in Parrsboro until her new husband agreed that he would have it pulled from its foundation and sailed across the water to Scots Bay.

They were happy in the Bay. So happy, in fact, that the Captain, Simone and young Hart were soon joined by a new son, Archer Fales Bigelow. Of course, not more than a few years passed before Captain Fitzgerald Bigelow’s ship,
Beautiful Dreamer,
was raided by a band of pirates and his body was left hanging from a mast. Simone Bigelow gave up on marriage after that.

She stays in her giant Cyclops of a house, all warty with Lunenburg bumps, while her son Hart spends much of every summer struggling to keep the clapboards covered in his mother’s favourite colour, a gaudy rooster red. Every evening she perches herself on the balcony, standing in front of a great round window, talking to herself and looking out to sea. Some say she goes out there to cry, others say it’s to curse her ancestors. Miss B. says, “That poor woman’s got her share of
haints.
She knows better than anybody, if you don’t talk to your ghosts from time to time, they’ll make you crazy.”

Although the widow would say it’s her rheumatism that’s brought her to know the midwife, Miss B. says otherwise. On more than one occasion she’s been called over to the Bigelow place to clean it out. “Miss Simone may put on a good show at church, clutching the hymnal, singing them hymns louder than everybody, but I’m not the only one who hangs a colander over her keyhole, or keeps a needle jar in the window and a crow’s wing over the door.” The two women often argue over religion or how to make a decent roux
,
but they agree that they have no choice but to get along. “We’d lose all but the foulest words of our mother tongue, our
maman français,
if we weren’t civil to each other. Our blood both come from people who suffered for God, and that make our hearts almost the same. When she needs me, I be there.”

This time, Miss B.’s invitation to the dinner party seemed more for show than anything else. The widow made quite a fuss over our arrival, kissing Marie on the cheeks and starting all her sentences with
quoi qu’il en soit,
“be that as it may,” her loud and pointed overuse of French brought on by her brother’s visit. She can’t be blamed for this of course, since it comes from what most residents of the Bay call “feelin’ fussy.” A person tends to get the fussies when someone visits from away, especially if it’s someone like Professor Payzant, who left the Bay to live abroad, vowing to “make his mark.” The person with the fussies insists on acting as if they haven’t missed a thing, that they’ve kept a keen eye on the whole world through newspapers, or friends of friends, or letters from faraway places, or perhaps even something as exotic as a crystal ball.

Over dinner, Professor Payzant explained that he felt it was his duty to come back to the Bay to share his adventures with us. “I’m happy to do it; in fact, I consider it a calling of sorts, bringing the best parts of the world to my dear sister in Scots Bay.

“I thought long and hard about this evening’s gathering. Would it be the pigmies of Papua New Guinea, the Inca of Peru, the mighty Zulu? In the end, the decision was clear: tonight you shall meet the Maoris of New Zealand!”

We retired to the parlour, where Professor Payzant brought out several artifacts from a large steamer trunk. Intricate carvings of whalebone and greenstone, spearheads and small wooden flutes, a long, sweeping cloak made from dog skin, feathers and flax. He passed around a book of photographs as he described the tribal life of the Maori. “They look quite menacing with their wild eyes and their tattooed faces, but I can assure you that it’s the higher classes who have their bodies pierced and pricked in such fashion.” He held up a crude tool. “A simple process, done with bone chisels and blue pigment. The more important the man, the more intricate his
moko,
or tattoo. Dare I say, the highest-ranking chiefs even have their buttocks covered. The women are more modest with their adornment, only having it on their lips and chin.”

The reverend popped a pastry in his mouth, licking powdered sugar from his fingers as he stared at the photo album, glancing every so often at Aunt Fran. “What lascivious-looking creatures. They must be mad with lust over their constant nakedness.”

Professor Payzant responded, “What seems sordid to some is quite natural for others. For all our differences, they were hospitable to me, taking me into their homes and even teaching me to cook food in the hot springs by dipping skin pouches into the steaming water. Quite ingenious, the Maori.” He walked around the room, putting out all the lamps but one. “Now I’ll tell you one of their legends.

“Te Rauparaha, chief of the Ngati Toa tribe, is perhaps one of the most famous of all the Maori chiefs. Once, while this great warrior was fleeing his enemies, a local chief assisted him by hiding him in a kumara store under the earth.” Professor Payzant’s voice fell to a low whisper. “Te Rauparaha sat silent in the darkness, barely wanting to breathe, waiting for his death.

“When at last the store was opened and the sun shone in, it was not the spear points of his enemies he saw, but the smiling face of the gracious and famously hairy chief! When Te Rauparaha came up from the pit and was once again standing in the sun, he performed a wild and victorious
haka.
”

Professor Payzant removed his shoes and began to chant, his eyes bulging, tongue stuck out, fists beating at the sides of his head, stamping and grinding his bare white feet on the floor. Uncle Irwin was asleep, snoring in a chair in the corner of the room.

Professor Payzant motioned for the rest of us to join him as he continued to stomp his feet. “Imagine their tattooed faces.” He stuck his tongue out at Widow Bigelow. “Imagine their wild eyes!” Aunt Fran, Reverend Norton, Dr. Thomas and Precious lined up next to him. They repeated the chant, stumbling over the words, Dr. Thomas scowling as he tried hard to get every gesture right, Precious, laughing and giggling. Professor Payzant instructed, “Now turn, single file, your left hand grabbing hold of the left ankle of the person in front of you, your right hand on the small of their back to steady yourself!” Reverend Norton’s hand slipped, grabbing at Aunt Fran’s behind. She turned and winked at him. He grinned with delight.

Instead of joining them, I chose to look further into the contents of the professor’s trunk, wishing I could crawl inside and sail off to anywhere but here. Not that I don’t care for the Bay, but sometimes I feel tethered to this place, by what’s always been. So many of the men, my father included, have sailed away from here. They come home with globe-shaped bottles, giant seashells or sailor’s valentines for their wives. And after all that, they still swear that “there’s no prettier sunsets then right here in the Bay.” I hope they’re right, because it seems the women will always have to wait and wonder.

I picked up one of the headpieces, ran my fingers over the intricate carvings, held it to my face and breathed in its woody scent of hot sun and warm sea. Through the mask (the face of a snarling, bloodthirsty monster), I could see Miss B. sitting next to Mrs. Thomas, her eyes closed, hands stroking the woman’s round belly. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I could see tears falling down Mrs. Thomas’s face. Before I could put the mask away, the young mother-to-be caught sight of me. She screeched and then fainted into Miss B.’s lap. Dr. Thomas broke free from his place in line, Precious falling to the floor, Reverend Norton catching Aunt Fran in his arms.

The doctor knelt at Miss B.’s feet, giving little smacks to his wife’s cheeks. “Lydia, Liddie…wake up, dear…are you alright?” He glared at Miss B. “I should have known better than to leave her side.”

Mrs. Thomas’s eyes fluttered as Dr. Thomas helped her to sit up. “Oh, Gilbert, don’t be silly. It’s my own fault. I should have taken care to wear a different dress; this one is too confining and hot. Besides, you should be thanking Miss Babineau rather than scolding her. She was giving me good news.” She grinned at Miss B., then squeezed her husband’s hand. “We’re expecting a boy.”

Dr. Thomas patted his wife’s hand. “Shh now, Lydia, you should stay quiet.” He held the back of his hand to her forehead. “I know you’re anxious, but let’s not give in to foolishness. I’ve told you before, there’s no way to predict the sex of a fetus.”

“Ain’t never been wrong yet,” Miss B. argued as she offered Mrs. Thomas a cup of tea.

The doctor’s face grew red, his voice flustered. “Superstition and wives’ tales may prove true some of the time, but they can’t be trusted. Belief in such practices in today’s day and age does nothing but halt the progress of science. No wonder so many of the women out here won’t come to their senses.”

Arms folded across his chest, eyes still closed, Uncle Irwin said, “I can’t recall a time she’s been wrong. Not once.”

“That’s all fine and good, sir, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Dr. Thomas fanned his wife with one of the feathered Maori masks. “Counting on that sort of thinking is ignorant, dangerous even.”

“The danger’s in forgettin’ who’s really in charge. Science don’t know kindness. It don’t know kindness from cabbage,” Miss B. interrupted.

The doctor raised his voice. “Science is neither kind nor unkind, Miss Babineau. Science is exact.”

“
Exact?
Exact don’t do a woman no good when she’s wailin’ for her mama.”

He pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them in Miss B.’s lap. “Which reminds me, I owe you a little something, Miss Babineau.”

She looked at him and scowled. “What’s that for?”

“Mr. Laird Jessup brought his wife, Ginny, to me last week. Mrs. Jessup will be the first woman from Scots Bay to have her baby under my care.”

Ginny Jessup is the most recent
woman from away
to come to the Bay, having married Laird Jessup last summer after he brought her across the Bay of Fundy from New Brunswick. She’s much younger than Laird (not much older than me, I’d guess), and his second wife in five years. He lost his first wife when she ran off to Halifax with a picture frame salesman. Of course, Aunt Fran blamed it on the fact that Laird’s first wife had also come from away. “You’d think he’d have learned his lesson the first time. If he’d just waited a bit longer, he might have taken Dora’s hand. The man’s got good land and such nice cattle. Can’t ask for much more than that.” Not that I would ever have married him, but Ginny’s a better match by far. She speaks so soft you barely know she’s there, and it’s clear she’d just about throw herself in front of a wagon if she thought it would please her husband, always following after him, whispering yeses.

The Widow Bigelow reached over and put her hand around Miss B.’s clenched fists. “That’s wonderful news, especially for you, Marie.” She grinned at Mrs. Thomas. “I’ve been trying for the longest while to convince our dear Miss Babineau that it was high time she gave up nursing all those mothers and let the rest of us take care of her.”

Miss B. pulled her hands away from the Widow Bigelow. “We been through this before, Simone. I ain’t done ’til the good Lord shows me the way home.” She held the coins out to Dr. Thomas. “And I told you, I don’t take no money.”

Aunt Fran interrupted. “The White Rose Society would be happy to put the money in a Mother’s Fund, as you once suggested, Doctor. The women of the Bay can choose for themselves as to how they want to have their babies.” Dr. Thomas handed Aunt Fran the money, and she put it in her purse, pulling the strings tight. “After seeing the maternity home for myself, I’d say it makes good sense.” She gave Miss B. a sympathetic look. “After all, we won’t have our dear Miss B. forever.”

Miss B. scolded Aunt Fran. “Don’t look at me like I was already dead and gone, Fran Jeffers. I gots help when I need it. I got Dora now, and she does just fine.”