Blackstrap Hawco (29 page)

Amanda knew more of Alan's dealings back home than he realized, for Annie had explained what had happened with her brothers and the men who associated with them. However, Annie had been sworn to not betray the whole truth, stating that her life would be placed in jeopardy should she break that promise. In the interest of her family's preservation, Amanda had chosen to sublimate this knowledge, pledging to shelter Emily through whatever means available to her.

 

Dear Annie:

Sunday. Emily got us up early & we got breakfast quickly, & Alan – in top hat and frock coat – drove us up to Cabot Tower and we found a lovely corner among the rocks where we could sit & paint the view. Emily is quite talented with colours and has a fine eye. We got down just in time for church – a lunch party & Government House, & then out again to the south side of the harbour, where we had never been before. We had to leave the car amp; walk over & under fishermen's flakes & along wooden ways along the rocks with the sea roaring in and out of the coves below – & then up a long wooden way to the lighthouse where we found several parties of friends sunning themselves on the grass among the rocks. It is a beautiful spot; you get the sweep of the bay to ‘Spear Head' & the Gibraltar that is our Signal Hill with Cabot Tower – a great rock with magnificent old red sandstone cliffs. And the sea so blue & the harbour water at our feet such clear deep green. The south hill is almost as fine a rock as Signal Hill – they both rise sheer 500 ft. from the sea. We had tea at the lighthouse,& the lighthouse keeper rose from bed to show Emily his treasures. His great-grandfather and grandfather & father had all been keepers of this lighthouse in turn. His wife, such a lovely
woman of about 35, is granddaughter of the old Captain Kane, who brought home his 1,000,000th seal this year. Captain Sheppard allowed Emily to sound the foghorn 3 times. It must have been startling to hear the foghorn on that brilliantly clear day. It is such a melancholy old cow – a minor tone. ‘Stay clear,' Emily called out toward the sea. ‘Be careful, poor fishermen.' The ‘poor fishermen' something she must have heard from me in my conversations.

I have learned that there are so many tiny communities scattered along the coast – fisherfolk whose ancestors settled just here or there because there was enough fishing for perhaps one or two families. And many of the villages, & towns even, are so inaccessible – they can only be reached by sea. There are poor creatures living in shacks without doors & without any heating in the bitter winter cold. All over the island, the poor people are in a desperate case. Women stay in bed till 1 o'c. because there is nothing to get up for. In other places the people never go to bed because they have no blankets, so they huddle together round whatever fire they have.

The population is a problem. The Roman Catholics teach, I am told, that an R.C. who produces 7 little R.C.s is certain of his ticket to Heaven. Children swarm, quite irrespective of whether there are the means of subsistence.

The merchants here have put nothing they could help back into the land; they have taken their fortunes abroad – spent their money in England where they send their children to boarding schools.

Last night, we had such a dainty dinner, so simple: soup, a wonderful fish jelly (green), a dish of cod tongues done in a white sauce, & vegetables & fresh green peas sent with it, & a trifle.

We have been having some impressive dinner parties – important people first, with a few unimportants to lighten the weight. People here are very friendly and easy to entertain.

After the particular dinner mentioned above, there was conversation and I, perhaps pig-headedly, brought up the topic of merchants sending their children away to schools in England, a
practice I have always felt was sorry in some way, to which in reply one of the merchants said: ‘Can you blame us? Who would choose to educate their children in an island where there is no education to be compared with what they can get in Canada or England?' And another, more sullen merchant glowered: ‘We chose the life for ourselves. There's no reason why we should condemn our children to it.'

‘We're none of us Newfoundlanders,' remarked one of the wives, ‘so we can say what we like' – and there was a pause. I gather I was expected to welcome an opportunity to unburden myself. I did not.

Yours, Amanda Duncan

ps: By the bye, should you decide to forward a reply, don't forget to address us St. John's, Newfoundland. There is a St. John in Nova Scotia or New Brunswick, so don't leave out the Newfoundland.

 

The disintegration of my great-grandfather's mind has always been a mystery to me and everyone who knew him. It was peculiar because according to the pathologist's report Jacob Hawco did not suffer from Alzheimer's disease, as suspected in the 1990s. It was a peculiar thing to read Emily's journals, listening to her describe coming back from the dead of depression, coming alive, while Jacob slowly began to fade into oblivion.

1974-1977

(April, 1974)

The three bookshelves that had hung on Emily's bedroom wall for years had been replaced. Jacob had measured the space and built a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that fitted into the exact area on Emily's side of the bed. Gradually, the new shelves became more and more crowded, as Emily saw her way deeper into the frozen wilderness that each book's author appeared to covet.

Emily had arranged with the bookstore in St. John's to have her books shipped by mail. On her last visit to the bookstore, she had seen how the woman who worked there had looked up the books in giant volumes like encyclopaedias with all the listings for all published books. Emily called the store on the telephone and then sent them the money by mail. If there was a space in time before she finished one book and the next one arrived, she read one of the old books, having little memory of most of them. Once she had been away from a book for a while, the particulars of it vanished, bit by bit, as did the harsh particulars of her own memories.

She read continuously. If she sat at the kitchen table having tea, a book was laid out in front of her. A book rested open on the counter when she was making soup, her eyes going to it as though it were a recipe.

Those were the things for the dead, she said to herself, making cookies for Ruth. Making salt beef and cabbage for Junior. The living eat, but it was all made for the dead. That made the dead content. She
left the baked goods on the plate and watched them. In time, they disappeared.

The burning of the journal had done her heart good. She could not understand why. She had expected that it would make her miserable, return her to her former state where she existed in pools of shadowy lead where the slightest movement or word was a muted violation of her bound inner self. Each thought a ten-ton dead thing to be extracted from the centre of her being and dragged clear of her.

It was on the icefields now where she saw herself, on a trail with an Arctic explorer, the men perishing from starvation, but the silver tea service that had been taken along still transported through the blizzard. The clink of the silver tea service in someone's sack. This was hope to her. What was so attractive about this vision, so fortifying? Go into the blinding white wilderness and carry your etiquette with you as a reminder of civility, humanity. This was hope to her. A man frozen to death in the snow, a man set upon and eaten by other men, with his silver tea service by his side. To her mind, there was nothing as astonishingly beautiful as that.

Beyond the kitchen window, the snow was coming down in big flakes, not fat flakes but ones that were delicate and thinly constructed. Emily watched them fall slow and straight, neatly separated in the air as they descended, as though spaced intentionally, they landed on Junior's sleeves and seemed made of feathers mixed with a material lighter than cotton. In minutes, the snow began to thicken, the flakes seemingly growing larger, wetter, turning fuller in body. The snow then thinned and faded, becoming almost invisible before disappearing entirely.

Emily baked a cherry cake with plenty of cherries and sliced it open. The red dots full and split. Eat, she would tell herself, not touching it, and the cake would be eaten. Slice by slice, it would vanish. Only crumbs left on the plate that she would squat with her thumb and bring to her mouth as though they were a sacrament.

 

(June, 1974)

Jacob saw the news on television. Three fish plants, including the one down in Bareneed, would be closing at the end of August. The rumour had been around for a while, but the TV had made it so. The reporter
said that a few years ago the cod catch had been the highest ever: 810,000 tonnes off the northeast coast. Foreign vessels accounted for 85 per cent of the catch. Federal fisheries minister Jack Davis up in Ottawa said it was time to support continental control. He said that foreign overfishing was why inshore fishermen were catching only half of what they were in the 1950s. This news made Jacob grumble and curse. He slapped at the armrest of his chair and leaned forward, muttering a threat. The Atlantic fishery workforce should be cut back by 25,000 people. The time had come for the federal government to stop subsidizing capital investment in the fishery. What to do about those workers? Those fishermen. Relocation and re-employment of unemployed fishermen should begin immediately.

Jacob sprang to his feet. ‘Like Christ!'

Those were the recommendations, said the reporter. But, yesterday, the proposals were rejected by cabinet.

‘Good fer cabinet,' said Jacob, giving a solid nod. ‘Dey won't drive us out. More friggin' relocation. Blast dose fuh'k'n foreigners outta da water. If I were a younger man. Blackstrap?' he called, looking around the living room, listening, wondering where Blackstrap might be. He assumed everyone was in the house with him, but who was in the house? He had no idea.

The Bareneed fish plant was the only employment opportunity breathing a bit of life into Jacob's hometown community. Three-quarters of the houses around there were filled up with welfare people now. An utter shame. And, soon, the other quarter of houses would be sheltering the unemployed too. The fish plant resting there at the base of the massive headland. Boats coming and going. Trucks hauling fish in and out. The bit of remaining life in the processing of fish that were shipped off to foreigners.

Where would they sell their measly catch now? They could bring it to Port de Grave but that plant, as far as he had heard, was already operating at capacity. Twenty-four hours a day. They wouldn't be wanting more fish there. Where was the Fishermen's Union when they were needed? Useless. Probably down in Florida lolling on the beach and sucking up fruity drinks. A bunch of mouthpieces that needed a good swift boot in the arse.

It was all looking grim. Money was getting scarce. Sell the boat, if he could find a buyer, and be done with it. There was already a glut of boats for sale on the market, plus hundreds of doreys hauled up on shore with grass growing up around them from sitting idle for years. Every now and then, someone burned their boat to make a point, but it was old news now. Another boat on fire. It barely drew a crowd anymore, except for a few juvenile-delinquent pyromaniacs.

Jacob snickered at the TV and went over to watch out the window, toward the trees. He listened for the train. What time was it? His eyes were drawn back to the TV screen and his thoughts were dissolved by the theme song for
Gilligan's Island
. The rush of canned laughter providing even better distraction. And there she was: Ginger. Wasn't she something. What a dress! Christ, b'y, now dat's funny. And dat Mr. Howell. A friggin' riot. Acting all uppity when he were stranded in da worst sort o' backward place with nothing, not even a pot ta piss in.

Jacob went back to his chair and sat, staring at the screen and smiling, grinning, laughing.

 

(August, 1974)

‘Richard Nixon, battered by controversy over the Watergate break-ins, has announced he is stepping down as president of the United States. The president's resignation is seen by many as a move to avoid an impeachment trial and possible removal from office. Mr. Nixon has been charged by the House Judiciary Committee with “high crimes and misdemeanours.”

‘The president informed the American people of his resignation in a television broadcast from the White House.

‘Initially, Mr. Nixon maintained that it was his duty to complete his term of office despite the Watergate charges relating to the 1972 break-in at the offices of the Democratic National Committee.

‘ “In the past days, however, it has become evident that I no longer have a strong enough political base in the Congress to justify continuing that effort.”

‘Adding to the initial scandal, was the uncovering of tape recordings that confirmed the president attempted to manipulate the police investigation into the Watergate crimes.

‘Mr. Nixon will be succeeded by US Vice-President Gerald Ford. Mr. Ford will be sworn in as the 38th president tomorrow.

‘ “As president I must put the interests of America first.” '

 

(September, 1974)

Jacob looked out the kitchen window. The vegetable garden. Time to pick the crop and store it away in the root cellar. The summer had not been good. Fog and grey skies. The crop had failed to reach its potential size. He thought of the supermarket. Why, he wondered. Go to the supermarket. Give up on the land. Too much labour for nothing. Maybe he could get Emily to give him a hand. That was usually her chore, tending the garden. She had been at it a bit, which was good. Nice to see her back in the garden, getting out and about more, but most times her head was stuck in a book about those frozen dead fellows. He would sometimes joke about her marrying one of them. ‘Dat's who ye should've married. They wouldn't be any bodder if ye kept 'em on ice.'

‘I did marry one,' Emily would say in reply. And Jacob would always take that as a compliment.

And where was Blackstrap? Off in the woods cutting wood?

‘Emily?'

No reply.

Maybe they both went off somewhere and he forgot where.

Out in the garden, he bent and pulled up a row of carrots, tossed them in an empty 40-gallon salt-beef bucket. At the end of one row, he straightened and turned to look back. Crows overhead. One of them sounding. One for sadness. He searched around for another to make a pair, found it. Two for mirth. A seagull that looked like a crow. What was the difference between black and white? He thought he might solve a mystery. Black was black and white was white. This made him feel better, until he noticed the row of holes. He stared. A hole in the ground. It struck him. There was time to stare now. To stare and wonder. Not when he was younger. There was no rest. He looked toward the barn. No animals. He thought he heard mooing. But that couldn't be so. No hay. He thought of the shore and the split fish laid out on flakes to dry. The hay laid out in another spot up the shore, the spot used by his family for generations, ever since his grandfather,
Patrick Hawco, came over from…County Clare, was it? No, that was someone else. It began with an ‘L.' Christ, he shook his head. Forget it. Patrick was his name. He had drowned trying to rescue sailors off the shore. Foreigners. Portugee. In a punt. Out in a storm. Who in dere right friggin' mind would ever launch a punt in a storm?

He could get into his pickup and drive to the grocery store in Bay Roberts. Standing there, with the calm autumn all around him, he heard it. To his surprise, the surge. The ocean, just there. Toward his left. Through the trees. A beach. He turned in expectation, but it was not the ocean. He faced a forest. Not the ocean, but the sound of the wind rising in the evergreens. Then he heard the rumble of an outboard motor. A boat returning to shore. No, the school bus in the distance. Children getting off, their noises as they ran and called out to one another. Where was the train? Its schedule must have been cut back. It came before the school bus. It hadn't today. Had there been an accident? Then he remembered that the schedule had, in fact, changed. How long ago?

The carrots were almost picked. The turnips were next to be done. He left the rows of potatoes for last because they numbered the most.

There came the whirring of a chainsaw from somewhere far off. Wood cut up for winter.

He was thinking: Burn the boat. Wood for winter. He stared in through the kitchen window. From his position, he had a view of the living room. The television still on. Images flashing. He turned to stare up at the sun and kept his eyes fixed there until the sky washed out white.

He looked back to the garden. A patch of green where the grass had grown over.

 

Emily suspected that Jacob would soon lose his boat. That might not be such a bad thing, because she feared for his return each time he left shore. However, presently, it was not the dangers of the sea that concerned her, but the dangerous state of her husband's mind.

Emily was aware that Blackstrap had not taken in as much money at the seal hunt as last year because of the protesters. The market had been cut back in Europe. A wave of anti-seal-hunt sentiment sweeping various countries. People thinking purely with their hearts, while every
other sort of animal was slaughtered without word of protest, and children died of starvation by the minute.

She could go to work at the fish plant in Port de Grave. They were always looking for workers on the line. Most men wouldn't work there. Jacob wouldn't either. Fish plant work was for women and young men. Blackstrap was off in the woods cutting firewood. There was a great demand for firewood that time of year. But firewood money was not as regular as a paycheque from the fish plant. Blackstrap refused to work in the fish plant as well. He had for one summer when he was sixteen and had come home stinking of fish, like the old days, the way everyone used to stink of fish. He was surly for most of the summer, having to take off his rubber boots, apron and hairnet, and strip off his clothes out back before coming into the house. The rubber gloves he was meant to wear ate away at his hands until his skin looked like it had been burned. It took months for them to lose their pinkness and for all the skin to peel clean. Emily had tried to tend to them, but Blackstrap would have no part of it. He hadn't complained about it either. And he wouldn't put the cream on his hands. Her hand cream. He wouldn't have anything to do with that. Nothing to soothe him. Nothing to help heal. Blackstrap would rather be fixing cars or hauling wood. Not standing over a belt separating the male and female capelin, the noise so loud around him that shouted words could not be made out.