Authors: Donna Morrissey
The wind grazed damp and soft against Clair’s cheek as she lagged behind her mother, uncle and sister, her coat wrapped tightly around the tail of her Sunday dress, partially hiding her new white stockings. Head down, she avoided those peering through their windows at Sare, or hanging off their back steps, calling out greetings as they, too, hurried through their housework, preparing to run down over the hill and greet the steamer. Luckily, Phoebe and Joanie and everybody were taking advantage of a Saturday morning and burrowing more comfortably into their beds, mindless of Job Gale or any other soldier coming home this early in the day, sparing Clair the sight of her friends, at least, watching her walk down the road on a Saturday with her Sunday clothes on.
“Small comfort,” she muttered, then turned her glance resentfully at the uncle’s back as he took hold of Missy’s hand, no doubt appearing to all those looking as the doting uncle. And were not his shoulders more drooped than yesterday—testimony to the burden he’d borne these past years? And did not his grave look and Sunday jacket lift him above the ranks of the rest of the Basiners this morning, earning him a share in the excitement of her father’s homecoming?
Lordy, she bemoaned, pushing away her thoughts of gloom—her mother was right—this was a day to treasure, and here she’d gotten herself into a snit because of the uncle and a few garments. But gloom redescended as her mother queened towards her, her head slightly tilted beneath her green feathered hat, her eyes more sparkling than the rhinestones adorning her throat and earlobes, and her coat partially opened, showing off the red of her satin skirt and the gleaming whiteness of its lacy, hanging petticoat. Plus, at the last moment before leaving the house, she had tinted up her lips and cheeks with a little rouge—worse than Joanie Pinkson’s doll.
It struck her then that since the day her father had walked away from her, down over the hill to the waiting steamer, and she had run inside to find her mother sobbing broken-heartedly, and Missy crumpling onto the floor, holding her arms up to Clair, that she hadn’t again thought of the doll. How so should she think of it now—on the same day as his return? And in such a manner? For upon thinking of the doll, she had turned her eyes skyward, and imprinted upon the cloud-tossed blue were the marble blue eyes in a stoic pink face, and painted lips that never moved, and glossy, curled hair and painted brows. The image hung there as did the hands of the clock in her mother’s kitchen, awaiting the breath of an ocean’s breeze to infuse it with life.
With a sudden gust the sky shifted, no longer the robin’s-egg blue of a second ago, but deepening to shades of indigo and mulberry, lightening, then darkening. As her father’s features replaced the face of the doll, they shifted too—his eyes, squinting, gazing, his cheeks dimpling, his mouth widening, narrowing—nothing stilled, nothing stationary. She shivered as that same gust now curled itself inside her collar, causing her to tighten further her coat as she turned her glance down over the bay to where the steamer was quickly approaching.
They reached the wharf and looked over the heads of their neighbours at the black hull of the ship as it neared, heaving and dropping on the swells from an offshore storm, and with a flock of snipes and gulls screaming over its stern. It wasn’t just her father’s homecoming that was spurring people out the door this morning. The steamer’s first visit of the year was always too fortunate to miss, what with the parcels of all shapes and sizes being unloaded and passed around before finding their rightful hands, and the passengers from up and down the bay getting off and milling around the wharf to stretch their sea legs and calling out to those they know and sharing bits of news about politics and friends before launching off again.
An old couple huddled at the far side of the wharf near the store and Clair peered more closely as the wind swiped the hood back off the old woman’s head, exposing her tight white braids. She instantly remembered that it was the same old woman that she had seen standing in the shadow of the stagehead the day her father brought them home from Cat Arm. And the brown worsted cap pulled down over the ears of the old man standing besides her left no wonder in her mind as to who these people were and their reason for making the trip from Rocky Head on this most hopeful of days. Holed by the cuddy in a boat bobbing up and down on the water behind them was a young fellow with longish blond hair tucked behind his ears and straying down over his shirt collar. Emptying out bilge water with a bicket, he sat with his back to the wharf, seemingly oblivious of the dozens of people swarming around and casting curious looks his way, but there was a tautness to his shoulders, and as Clair watched, she sensed as strongly as if she were sitting in the boat alongside of him that this was more attributed to the dozens of pairs of eyes boring into his back than his act of bailing out bilge water. She knew because the same tautness was stiffening her shoulders as she stood with the glaring white of her Sunday stockings luring, undoubtedly, the attention of every man, woman and child standing behind her.
Frankie moved out from the crowd and stood talking with the elderly couple, and Willamena, brushing past Clair, ran over to join him, linking her arm through his. Spotting Crowman slouching against the side of the store, Clair pushed away from her mother and sought shelter in the shadow he threw off besides him. A dog trotted by and Missy sprang after it, and the uncle after Missy so’s she’d not get her stockings dirty. Her mother stood by herself for the moment, and Clair noted that even Crowman, who was renowned for his absent-mindedness, couldn’t help but be attracted to the sight of her mother. If not for the Sunday clothes, her presence might have blended with the others and one might not have noted the trembling of her mouth and the expectancy in her eyes, like the bared soul of a virgin maid upon the eve of her first love. As was, the wind-fondled garments resembled a foreign flag fluttering around her legs, enticing all those who neared to stare and query whether scorn or respect was the appropriate tribute to this exotic outlander, or whether to turn away from the beguiling appeal of the bride and satisfy their intrigue through secretive, sideway glances instead.
Not so was Clair flapping in their faces. Scrunching as tightly to the side of the store as its walls would allow, her coat tightly drawn around her, and the white of her stockings greyed by Crowman’s shadow, she more resembled a flag at half-mast on a windless day. A shout sounded from up on deck as the last rope was tied and the gangway lowered, and Sare, forgetting once again those standing around her, pressed forward, cottons and satins fluttering around her legs, searching out the faces of those leaning over the ship’s railing. Heavily clothed figures stared back, their gaze skipping over the upturned faces of most of the people and fastening their scrutiny onto Sare’s, as intrigued as the Basiners by this coloured spectre straining towards them, her eyes eagerly searching theirs, so urgent, so tremulous, one feared she would succumb to convulsions before discovering that which she so frantically sought.
Then Alma was shuffling besides her, taking her arm and steadying her as she bumped into a youngster in her haste to get closer to the gangway. “My dear, come—stand back a bit, and give him time to disembark.”
“I don’t see him,” said Sare, her tension breaking to half sobs as she allowed Alma to lead her away from the centre of the crowd, closer to where Clair was standing by the store.
“How can you expect to see anybody in this mob?” said Alma. “Look, there’s Missy—and Sim. Watching her like a hawk, he is. My, you had some help there since Job left. Sim, come here, my son, and hold up Sare. I takes Missy. How old is she—eight? Nine? Running around like a two-year-old, she is. Here, Clair, come take your sister’s hand. That’s the girl,” she said as Clair left Crowman’s side, reaching for Missy.
“Mommy, Mommy, do you see Daddy?” sang out Missy, pulling away from Clair and dancing around her mother. Clair trembled with excitement too, straining to see over the heads of the men and women as they crowded before her. No doubt they were all here now, she thought somewhat contrarily, and no doubt from the eagerness of their smiles as they strained towards the boat, they were all thinking mighty fine of themselves—for were they, too, not heroes? Had they not warred against starvation and frostbite on his—their neighbour’s door stoop—thus allowing him to war on the stoop of another?
“Job!”
The cry was from her mother. Clair wormed into an opening and caught her breath. He was there—all six feet and gangly—standing at the top of the gangway with a package of sorts in his hands. And his eyes fastened onto her mother. Daddy!
The crowd parted, allowing Sare a clear path towards him. Missy darted after her, but the uncle snatched her back. Clair wanted to reach out, to take her sister’s hand, but her own remained lifeless to her side as her father started walking down the gangway. His step was slow, bow-legged, like all those at sea for many days. And there was a limp, a decided limp to his right leg. His wound. Most everyone quietened as he slowly made his way down amongst them— even her mother came to a standstill, watching him, one hand covering her mouth, the other her heart. He had come back. Her father had come back. And not the coward they had made him out to be, but a man. A proud man.
“It’s home you be, agin, Job, my son,” someone called out, and others spoke too, welcoming him. But his eyes touched only Sare, standing with both hands to her mouth now, and the tears streaming down her face. Someone let out a whistle as they drew nearer and Alma’s whoop was heard above the rest as Sare broke into a run and threw herself into her husband’s arms. Holding the cloth-wrapped bundle he was carrying to one side, Job buried his face into the curls that the wind had torn free of the green-feathered hat, and held her tightly to his chest.
It’s a hat, thought Clair of the bundle he carefully held to one side, as was in Missy’s dream—a hat for her mother. Or seashells. Or flowers—
Everyone quietened again as Job pulled back from Sare, raising his head to look around at them. As if he recognized Missy’s whines, his eyes swept towards her and Clair’s insides quickened as he gazed over Missy’s head and onto her—but then, just as quickly, beyond. Moving Sare aside, he held the bundle more firmly before him and started walking, his step a slow, dragging limp.
She knew—without looking she knew—whom he was walking towards, whom he was holding the bundle out to. Amongst them all, there were only two others waiting with the same look of longing on their faces as was on hers and her mother’s—and onto her father’s too, as he searched them out. She turned, following him with her eyes towards where the old man and woman from Rocky Head stood side by side, watching, waiting. Their look turned into a pressing urgency as they stared from him to the ship’s railing, and back to him again, the same look that she, Clair, had seen upon her mother’s face a dozen times as she had sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the muddied garden, waiting, praying, begging for a word, a sign—
A breeze lifted the cloth off the bundle, exposing a brown wool cap atop a few other articles of clothing. Emitting a little cry, the old woman began to fold. The old man swayed, his arms reaching around her, his eyes straying from her father to the railing, from her father to the railing, searching, searching, for that which still could be. Yet, they knew. From the way their bodies had already begun to shrink into each other, they knew. Had known since long before the boat had docked and her father stood before them, holding out to them all that remained of their son, for how can death to a part of you be held unknown?
A whimper escaped Clair as her father pressed the bundle into the old woman’s arms, and she clasped her hand frightfully over her mouth, looking down lest the sound be tagged to her. A hand touched her elbow, gently nudging her to one side and Frankie moved past her. Reaching out to the old man and woman, he laid his forehead against theirs, all three leaning into the other.
“Luke!” Her father called down to the young fellow still sitting with his back to everybody, the bicket now resting by his feet. He looked around slowly, and she saw the tears glistening on his face in the paltry noonday sun. Kneeling down on the edge of the wharf, her father reached inside his shirt pocket, pulling out a bronzed medal with a striped ribbon dangling from it. The young fellow refused to move at first, preferring to hang his head instead, allowing his tears to freely fall. Then, wiping at them, he rose, holding up his hand for his brother’s medal.
A medal of honour, thought Clair. Of war. Oh, sweet release that it wasn’t her accepting the medal from some young man wearing a brown worsted cap, whilst the others watched her tears glisten in the noonday sun. A murmuring of sympathies poured forth from the Basiners, and Frankie stepped to one side as Sare approached the old couple, the joyousness of her eyes tinged with shame as she turned them upon their grief. Bowing, she then wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulders, embracing her. And grasping the man by the hand, she held it to her cheek, made wet with her tears of mingled joy and suffering. Job laid an arm around her shoulders and they watched silently as Frankie helped the elders down over the wharf into the boat. Luke was already heaving on the flywheel, and puffs of blue smoke soon rose into the air, spreading the pungent smell of gas across Clair’s nostrils as he released the clutch and they putt-putted away from the wharf, back towards Rocky Head, Frankie at the stern, Luke qualled down by the motor, and the old man and woman huddling together, facing the empty seat between them and the bow.
“Job, the girls,” said Sare, and Clair’s heart constricted again as her father turned towards her. But before her eyes had a chance to connect with his, the uncle stepped before her, bowing slightly as he held out Missy’s hand.
“You’ve seen to them?” her father asked, his tone grave.
“A brother’s lot,” said Sim, voice equally grave. Her father nodded, then bent over, gazing lovingly onto Missy.
“Hello, Daddy,” said Missy boldly, yet holding tight to her uncle’s hand.