The Hull Home Fire (3 page)

“Hello, young man.”

Henry rubbed the dog behind its ear. “How’s your arthritis, Rusty boy ?”

Mr. Duggan looked down at his friend and pet. “As good as can be expected for
an ancient codger like him.” Rusty licked his wrist.

“It sure is cold,” Henry said.

“Cold enough to take strips off your face.”

“Gran told me that Mrs. Duggan’s doing better.”

“Eileen isn’t coughing near so much and she’s put on a pound or two.” Ten years
younger than her husband, she suffered from a recurring bout of tuberculosis.
His voice grew soft. “Hull Home agrees with her more than the Sanatorium. She
feels more like a guest than a patient.”

“That’s good,” Henry said, clapping his gloved hands to keep warm. He marvelled
how the cold didn’t seem to affect the elderly gentleman.

Rusty barked and cantered to the Home’s front door. Mr. Duggan tapped the side
of his head with two fingers. “The master commands, I obey,” he said, and
hurried after the dog.

The icy air sliced into Henry’s skin. The wind picked up.

“Henry.”

He turned. The full moon highlighted Hull Home like a
spotlight.
Mary Norris hurried toward him, massaging her temples. “You all right,
Mary ?”

“I have another migraine.” She scrunched up her forehead. “Mr. Case took his
sweet time to paint the place. The second I get a whiff of the fumes my head
begins to pound.” Mary clutched her stomach. “I feel like throwing up,
too.”

“The smell is awful bad. Maybe you should go home.”

“I don’t work, I don’t get paid. Anyway, Mr. Hull asked me to call you
back.”

“Mary, I want to talk to you about medical...” Henry’s voice trailed away as
she turned and walked back up the street to the Home. He remained rooted to the
spot until the chill drove him into movement. The office empty, he ambled to the
kitchen at the end of the hall. She was filling the kettle with water. “Mary,
have you seen Mr. Hull ?”

Curtly, she answered, “I’m not his keeper.”

Henry blinked. “Sorry.”

Mary turned from the stove. “He’s probably with one of the residents.” Her
voice softened a fraction. “I was just about to make a cup of tea for myself.”
She brought down a package of tea leaves from the cupboard. “I hope the stove
lasts long enough to get supper under way.”

“Maybe it’s high time Mr. Hull replaced it.”

Mary groaned, her eyes on the dishcloths lining the pipes behind the stove. “I
keep taking those off. Mr. Hull insists on putting them back.”

“Mom never does that,” Henry said. “She’s afraid they might catch fire.”

Mary whipped away the row of dry dishcloths and tidied them into a drawer.
“There was some lot wrong with the stove,” she said, and explained the
details.

“Mr. Hull’s aware how dangerous all that is. Right ?”

“You’d be some idiot if you didn’t.” Mary sat down and folded her hands on the
table, a faraway look on her face.

Henry stared at her full lips, slightly apart. His eyes travelled to the pug
nose splattered with the occasional freckle. Such a pretty nose, he thought, and
he wondered why he had teased her about it when they were youngsters. Steam
pumped from the kettle spout, breaking Henry’s trance. “You know I applied to
medical school,” he said. “So let’s talk about it.”

“Later. Right now I have a more immediate concern on my mind.” Mary sighed long
and deep. “Have you forgotten about the big inspection today ? It didn’t seem
like they were too pleased with any of the conditions here.” She tutted. “Mrs.
Hull acted offended at their concerns.”

“That’s no surprise.”

“Who’ll feed my mother and Dougie if I lose my job ?” Mary held her head high.
“I don’t want my little brother to have to quit school and work for
scraps.”

“I know it’s been tough since your father left,” Henry said, then paused. “Now
your grandfather’s gone as well.”

Mary flashed dark eyes at him. “Don’t ever speak of Gramps in the same sentence
with the bastard who walked out on his family.”

Henry felt his face burn. “I’m sorry, Mary. I shouldn’t have brought him
up.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “Dougie was only two years old when he took off.
Damn right I don’t want that excuse for a father mentioned in any connection
with my grandfather.”

Isaac appeared from nowhere. “Mary, didn’t you already have a spell from
work ?”

She spun around on her chair, startled. “I needed strong tea to
help this killer migraine.”

“Well, get on with it, girl. I’ll be back shortly to cook supper.” He glanced
at Henry. “Come along.”

Invoices and bills were strewn over Henry’s desk. “I didn’t have time to go
through them while you were off over Christmas,” Isaac said. “I forgot to
mention them to you earlier, and seeing as tomorrow is Saturday...”

Henry gawked at him. “Christmas ? They should’ve been logged in and paid for
last month.”

“I pay you to work for me, young man,” Isaac hiccupped. “Not to lecture
me.”

Henry pulled up the sleeves of his sweater and sorted through the stack to the
sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Halfway through the pile, the
smell of tomato soup wafted toward him. His head ached by the time he wrote down
the last figure. He closed the accounts book and put it in the desk’s top
drawer.

“It’s six-thirty,” Mary said, standing over the desk, her arms full with clean
bedclothes. “How’s it going ?”

Henry rubbed tired eyes with the heels of his hands. “That late ! No wonder I’m
starving enough to eat worms.”

Mary smiled at their childhood expression and pulled a tea bun out of her apron
pocket. “Chew on this to tide you over. Made them myself last night.”

Henry looked toward the kitchen where Mr. Hull stirred a pot on the stove.
“You’d think he’d hire a proper cook.”

Mary shrugged. “Maybe he can’t spare the money.”

“Right,” Henry said. “Just like the King of England can’t afford a proper
cook.”

Mary giggled despite herself. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Henry reached up and brushed strands of hair away from her
mouth. “Your laughter reminds me of Christmas bells.”

Mary backed away. “I have work to do.”

“I’ll drop in on Gran before I go,” Henry said, pretending not to notice the
slight. He dashed downstairs to the side door and ran the short distance to the
Annex, annoyed he had forgotten his coat. The wind blew him inside, displacing
several of the small, framed pictures strung along both walls. He manoeuvred
around the stove and climbed the stairs two at a time.

“Gran,” Henry called when he reached the room she shared with three women. Two
of the three doors were blocked with sideboards. Night tables and armchairs
cramped the already crowded space.

“She not’s here,” a voice called from across the hall.

Henry recognized Eileen Duggan’s soft tone. The old lady held a raisin tea bun
in one age-spotted hand and a cup of tea in the other. “Dot went out with your
mother this morning.” She took off wire-framed glasses and smiled at Henry. Her
dark brown eyes seemed even darker against her pale skin.

“Thanks, Mrs. Duggan.”

Eileen popped the last morsel of bun into her mouth. “That was delicious. Mary
is a dear to bring in little treats for us.”

Henry produced the one Mary had given him. “She’s a good baker,” he said, and
devoured the bun. Heavy footsteps thumped in an irregular fashion toward the
room. Dr. Kennedy slowed at the door.

“It’s lovely to see you,” Eileen said.

Henry nodded to the man from the Department of Health and Welfare. He was sent
to the Home once a week to check on the patients. Sixty years old, tall, with
slightly
stooped shoulders, he limped to the bed. “I slipped on
the darn ice getting out of my car. My hip will be bruised for a month.”

“Gracious, Doctor,” Eileen said. “Are you hurt bad ?”

“Nothing too serious.” He winked at Eileen. “How is my favourite patient
today ?”

A slight shade of pink crept up Eileen’s face. “Grand, Doctor.”

“Would you mind if Henry stayed while I examine you ? Every bit of practice
will come in handy for the boy.”

“I don’t mind at all. Dot’s so proud of her grandson, the future doctor.”

Dr. Kennedy warmed the stethoscope on the palm of his hand. He held it to
Eileen’s chest and explained the various sounds Henry should expect to hear.
“Take a listen,” he said, transferring the scope to her back.

Henry smiled. “Her lungs aren’t congested as much.”

The doctor poked a thermometer under Eileen’s tongue. “Henry, have you told him
yet ?”

“He knows.”

“And ?”

Henry shook his head.

“He’ll come ’round.”

“I’d better get going,” Henry said. “Mom will wonder where I am.” He closed the
bedroom door on the way out. At the bottom of the stairs he tripped on the stove
and stumbled toward the door. He swore under his breath as Mary came in. “Damn
stove should be moved to a safe place.”

“It is a nuisance,” Mary said. “But Mr. Hull won’t hear tell of it being
shifted anywhere else.”

DOT GATHERALL SAT WITH TOM
in his living room
knitting a sweater for her only grandson. “Henry’s late,” she said, the needles
clicking together.

Tom peered at her over the top of the
Evening Telegram
. He said
nothing.

Dot put aside the knitting. “Think I’ll see if Alice needs help with
supper.”

Tom closed the paper and lowered it to his lap. “Tell your daughter I know what
you’re both up to.”

Dot put a finger on her bottom lip, an exaggerated look of puzzlement on her
face. “Tom Gibbs,” she said. “Whatever do you mean ?”

“Alice wants you to talk ‘sense’ into me about Henry and this doctor
foolishness. I don’t want to debate it now or during supper.” Tom snapped open
the paper and buried his head in it once more.

Dot smiled and stood up. “There’s always tomorrow.”

WITH HER BEDROOM DOOR CLOSED
, and a small candle lit on the
night table, Alice read Mike’s letter. The sewing basket rested wide open on the
bed next to her. Tom and Dot’s voices could be heard coming from the living
room. Despite the distance, Alice caught snippets of their conversation about
the government situation, a passionate topic for Tom. Work at the dockyard had
been slow all week, and he had come home just as the mailman deposited the mail
through the slot in the door. Tom had scooped up the envelopes with a quick
glance at the top one before passing them to Alice. “Newfoundland Light and
Power,” he said. “Seems like bills arrive more frequent than once a
month.”

Alice spotted Mike’s familiar handwriting sticking out from under the bill.
“I’ll get to these later,” she said, and packed them into her sewing basket. Her
hand trembled.

The letter lay hidden in the sewing basket all day, nagging at her thoughts,
her fingers itching to rip into it. Henry had called to say he would be late.
They had decided to wait for him before they ate supper, so she had taken the
opportunity to steal away and read the letter.

The glow from the candle cast shadows over the paper as she
reread the first line :

I am very proud of Henry, as you must be.

If only Tom felt the same way. Alice’s eyes flickered to the door before she
continued.

Alice became aware the voices had stopped. She dropped the letter in the
basket, shut the lid, and snatched her knitting from the bedside table.

The door handle jiggled. Dot moseyed into the room. “So,” she said, “what is
it ?”

Alice stifled a fake yawn. “What do you mean, Mom ?”

Dot flipped open the basket and pointed to the letter.

“It’s from Mike,” Alice said softly.

Dot gently closed the lid. “Henry’s home and Tom’s wondering where you
are.”

Alice hid the sewing basket under the bed and went downstairs with her
mother.

Henry stood in the front porch taking off his boots. “Sorry I’m late, Mom. Mr.
Hull kept me later than I thought.”

Dot sucked air through the gap in her teeth. “Doesn’t he
always ? I hope this time you insisted he pay overtime.”

“I’ll get supper on the go,” Alice said. “Tom must be hungry enough by now to
chew on the paper.”

“Gran,” Henry whispered when his mother was out of sight. “How’s Dad ?”

“Hungry like your mother said. How about you ?”

Henry smiled. “Starved.”

Dot linked into her grandson. “Onward to the battlefield.”

Henry tensed as they approached the kitchen. “Can you stay with us until I
leave for university ?” he murmured in her ear.

Dot chuckled. “You and your father will survive this little hiccup.”

Tom had the table set as he did whenever he had the day off work. Steam spouted
from the kettle. He emptied the boiled water into the teapot and placed it on
the stove to steep.

Alice smiled and ran a finger along the lid. “It’s almost impossible see where
you glued it back together.”

Dot sat down in her usual place on the inside of the table. “Tom’s a handy man
to have around,” she said. “Alice, my girl, you’re one fortunate woman.”

Tom remained silent.

Henry pulled out a chair to the right of his grandmother. “Supper smells great,
Mom.” He looked at his father. “Right, Dad ?”

Tom avoided his son’s gaze and took his place at the head of the table. His
continued silence rang in Henry’s ears.

Dot covered Henry’s hand with her own. “Jiggs’ dinner is a real feast. Mr. Hull
planned on ham sandwiches for tonight.” She screwed up her face. “For the third
time this week.”

Tom spread a napkin across his knees. “That’s not much of a meal. Especially
for the very sick patients.”

Alice placed a bowl filled with cabbage, potatoes, turnip, and
carrots in the centre of the table followed by pease pudding and chunks of salt
meat. “Dig in while it’s still hot,” she said.

Henry noticed his father spoon every item onto his plate, each movement slow,
deliberate.

“You’re some quiet tonight, Tom,” Dot said. “Something on your mind ?”

Alice frowned at her mother.

Henry’s heart skipped a beat.

Tom looked his mother-in-law squarely in the eyes. “When I have something to
say, I’ll say it.” His face was calm, relaxed. “I won’t need prodding from you
or anyone else.”

“Welcome to radio station VONF and the
Barrelman
show
.”

All heads turned toward the radio, which stood on a shelf under the
window.

“We Newfoundlanders have a responsibility, a duty toward our children and
future generations. Our lives cannot, must not carry on as they have been
for the last hundred or more years. How do we go about ensuring a prosperous
future that will endure ? That is the question which I am certain is
uppermost in your minds. I know this, my fellow islanders, because you love
this great land with an unrelenting passion
.”

“The nerve of Joey Smallwood,” Alice said. “Telling us what to think.”

“Confederation with Canada is the answer, the only answer. The answer that will
bring prosperity. Not just prosperity...”

Alice chomped on a mouthful of cabbage. “He certainly is long-winded.”

Tom chewed a piece of salt meat. The gristle slipped down his throat. “What a
load of bull the man’s spewing out,” he said. “The answer to our problem is to
get rid of Commission of
Government. The idea of England making
all the decisions about what happens here doesn’t sit well with me.”

Alice nodded. “It’s about time we get back to Responsible Government. We’re a
separate country and should have the right to run it the way we see fit.”

The radio droned on.

“The meeting is at seven-thirty tonight at the CLB Armoury. Come along one and
all. Bring your children and learn why Confederation is the only choice that
makes any sense. It will be the best thing you’ll ever do in your — ”

Alice hopped up from the table and tuned the radio to another station. “I can’t
stand to listen to any more of that horse manure.” Static followed before piano
music drifted around the kitchen. “That’s much better,” she said.

Tom went to the stove for the teapot. “Smallwood’s wasting his time,” he said.
“All the man wants is to make a name for himself at this country’s
expense.”

Alice cut up a pan of homemade gingerbread and served it with a dollop of
tinned cream over the top. “In my opinion Joey and his co-conspirators are
nothing more than traitors to Newfoundland.”

Dot looked at the wall clock and caught Henry’s eye. “It’s seven-twenty. I
should get back to the Home.”

Henry stared at the gingerbread he he’d hardly had time to sample. His mouth
watered. “Guess I’ll save this for later.”

ONLY STANDING ROOM WAS AVAILABLE
when Henry and his grandmother
arrived at the CLB Armoury. Taller than most of the people there, Henry looked
over their heads at the long bench and table set up at the front of the room for
Joey and three of his colleagues.

“I want to hear Mr. Smallwood explain how joining Canada has
merit,” Dot said. “It can’t make us worse off than we are right now.” A constant
hum of voices sizzled the air like an electrical charge. More people packed into
the auditoriumsized room, bumping and pushing others into the aisles.

“I hope this meeting doesn’t turn angry,” Henry said, keeping a protective eye
on his grandmother. “Folks get riled up awful easy about politics these
days.”

“I can’t hear myself think with all this noise,” Dot shouted.

Henry saw Joey converse with the man sitting to his right. The man smiled,
exuding complete confidence. Joey rearranged the papers in front of him then
scanned the waiting crowd. He pulled a white handkerchief from inside his suit
jacket and cleaned his wire-rimmed glasses with meticulous care. He put the
glasses on, neatly refolded the handkerchief, and returned it to his
pocket.

Dot tugged on Henry’s arm to get his attention. “Let’s get closer,” she said,
and made to push through the crowd. “I want to have a closer look at Mr.
Smallwood.”

“No, Gran,” Henry said, holding her back. “It’s safer back here, and easier to
get out if anything happens.”

Joey drank a full glass of water. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his eyes
roaming over the people. The deafening hum faded to silence. “It fills me with
great pride to see so many Newfoundlanders gathered here tonight. It thrills and
excites me. I am overjoyed, but most of all, proud. Proud to see that you have
taken a keen interest in this pivotal issue. We will embark on a discussion that
will without a doubt change the course of history.”

Dot made a clucking sound. “Takes him a while to get ’round to the point. I
must admit,” she added, “you can’t deny he’s an eloquent speaker.”

Joey hooked his thumbs in his breast pockets, an air of
authority about him. “We are a moderate-sized island with a small population. If
we continue to stand alone, there is nothing but bleakness ahead.” He paused to
look around the room, his gaze fixed from time to time on one person or another.
“Poverty will increase. The way of life we treasure above all else will blur
into the past.” He paused again. “I have struggled, not for one year, not for
two.” His raised fingers to match each number. “Not for three, not even for ten,
but for twenty years to find the means to make Newfoundland the best it can be
for Newfoundlanders. My friends, Confederation is the answer. Canada is a vast
country, a rich country, one that will bestow all its advantages on its newest
province.”

“And be Canada’s lapdog instead of England’s !” A man in the front row
said.

“You got that right,” the man directly behind him added. “Responsible
Government is the way to go.”

Joey raised a steady hand to his glasses, adjusting them more snugly around his
ears. “Mr. Jones and Mr. Murphy,” he said, addressing the two men who had
interrupted him. “As Canadians, we will have the freedom to govern our province
the way we feel will benefit each and every one of us. England has ruled us with
an iron fist. Canada will simply guide us with a helping hand.”

A man in his sixties seated in the second-to-last row stood up. “We had Yanks
and Canadians here in droves during the war. I for one have had enough of
foreigners telling us how to live proper.”

A woman next to him half rose from her chair. “Me and my man can hardly make
ends meet with ten youngsters. I say we give Mr. Smallwood a chance to tell us
what benefits we’d get if we became Canadians.”

“I was born a Newfoundlander,” a white-haired man
said from the
centre of the room, “and intend to die a Newfoundlander, not a bloody
Canadian.”

Three-quarters of the people applauded.

“I say we listen to what Mr. Smallwood has to say,” a young woman shouted over
the din. “He makes sense to me.”

“You’re not much more than a youngster,” a deep voice said. “What would you
know about politics ?”

“She has a right to her opinion,” someone else said.

Joey smiled at the young woman. “It is truly heartwarming to see our young
taking an active interest in their future. Anyone who strives to hold back
Newfoundland is an enemy against hope and prosperity.” He directed his attention
to the section at his right and honed in on an elderly man with balding white
hair. “You good folks know what I mean. Is that not the case, Mr.
Edwards ?”

Mr. Edwards, a renowned lawyer, stood up. “Mr. Smallwood is a champion for all
Newfoundlanders. He has toiled non-stop to...”

The back row booed, drowning out the rest of the sentence.

Henry took his grandmother by the arm. “Let’s get out of here before a brawl
starts,” he said, and elbowed his way toward the exit.

Joey spread his arms wide as if to give a blessing. “Is freedom of speech only
for those who agree with you ?” He spoke in a normal pitch, yet it resonated
clearly, audibly. The crowd quieted down.

“
I
’
M VERY IMPRESSED WITH MR
. Smallwood,” Dot said
outside.

“Nothing anyone says or does will make Dad believe in Confederation,” Henry
said. “He doesn’t like any sort of change.”

Dot wound her wool scarf more securely around her neck and
buried her chin in the folds. “I wish this cold spurt would lift. It makes my
skin ache.” Arm in arm, she and Henry started up Military Road. They walked
along the empty streets where not even a motor car passed by.

“I expect everyone’s at the CLB Armoury,” Henry said. “Smallwood certainly
knows how to keep a cool head. He stopped a near-riot with a few words.”