Authors: Donna Morrissey
“Just little stories we starts off the day with,” said Clair. “I was thinking we could plan a school play—get some of them to stand up and tell their stories to everybody. What do you say, Willamena?” she asked politely as Willamena came out on her stoop. “It was fun when we did the speaking contests, wasn’t it?”
“Might be something we can take up with the new teacher,” said Willamena, her head tilting regally as she drew a telegram out of her apron pocket. “It just come. From Frankie,” she added, turning to Nora and Beth. “He’ll be home in a couple of days with the new teacher.”
No one spoke. The only sound was the gentle flapping of the sheets against the dull rumbling of the sea. Slipping the message back in her pocket, Willamena turned to Clair, her nostrils twitching like a rodent who has ascertained a pending threat harmless and is now free to burrow along its path.
“Well, it was a good turn we done bringing you here,” she said, “but I expect your grandmother could be using your help now, for I hear she’s not well, and I’m sure it must be hard on poor old Sim having to do for young Missy as well. And I suppose you’re longing to see Missy agin, too; for sure you haven’t been home since you come—and that’s what, five weeks now?”
“She went back once,” said Nora, her tone deep with meaning.
“For all the welcoming she got,” added Beth. “Clair— you want to stay?”
“Not as a teacher, she can’t,” said Willamena. “The fellow coming got his grade eleven and is sent by the school board.”
“Humph, that last fellow that taught here had his grade eleven,” scoffed Beth, “and we doubts if he even knowed his alphabet. I say if Clair wants to stay, she can stay.”
“Well, this one must be good,” said Willamena, “else, Frankie wouldn’t be bothering with him. He said that before he left.”
“It’s not just Frankie who got a say in this,” said Beth. “We all do. When’s he getting here, did he say?”
“Not for next week,” said Willamena. “And he’s bringing the teacher with him.”
“Next week!” exclaimed Nora. “He’s going to miss the vote?”
“He’s going to vote in Corner Brook.”
“Then who’s going to set us up here?”
“Somebody from Corner Brook is coming out with the box and setting it up in school. We all votes there, then he takes the box up to the Basin and counts them.”
“Up to the Basin,” said Beth suspiciously. “Who’s going to witness the count?”
Willamena shrugged, then with sudden thought spoke out. “Perhaps Clair can. It’ll be a good way for her to get home—and she can witness that nobody touches the box till the count.”
“I haven’t heard her say she’s going yet,” said Nora. “Clair? Would you stay?”
“Sure you’d like to, wouldn’t you?” said Beth, as Clair continued to stand silently. “I know, we can take a vote,” exclaimed Beth. “That’s what we can do—when the men gets home this evening, we can run around and take a vote—”
“You can’t do that,” cut in Willamena. “It’s the school board who decides things like that—not a vote.”
“School board!” scoffed Beth. “We wouldn’t have a school if we never went after them, screaming blue murder. Why would they argue if we found our own teachers as well. That’s what we’ll do, Nora; run around after the men gets home and take a vote. And if we all says yes, you can send Frankie a message tonight, telling him to not bring the teacher,” she added to Willamena.
“Clair?” asked Nora. “Clair, you haven’t said you wanted to stay yet.”
Clair’s gaze dropped. In a world where everything good she had ever known had been wiped away by the devilish hand of fate, could she learn to trust it? Even that which was evil—such as the uncle’s stealing her home—for had it not brought her here, to this place where she stood before the children, becoming the grand teacher her father believed her of being?
Now, wasn’t this a lesson to be lining whatever bed awaited her, she thought grimly, that within the crux of fear is to be found its own comfort. She raised her eyes, casting them onto the questioning faces of Nora, Beth, and the hills beyond, her thoughts drowning amidst the flapping sheets and shrieking youngsters, and the foreverness of the wind and sea. Turning to Willamena, she gave the slightest of nods.
“Now, Nate,” Clair heard Willamena saying later that evening as the outside door opened and his voice hailed loudly from the porch, “I already warned the women that it wasn’t their say on this one.”
“There you are, young miss,” said Nate heartily as Clair’s room door burst open and she stood staring at him expectantly. “I suppose you’re keen to hear what everyone’s saying, heh? They says you’re most welcome to stay,” he said, grinning at the relief overtaking her face. “Now you get on that machine,” he added loudly to Willamena, “and tell Frankie to leave that teacher behind—we already got one.”
“I’ll telegraph him,” said Willamena, “but like I’m after saying, it’s what the school board says—”
“Ahh, Frankie don’t bloody mind what the school board says,” said Nate, trailing back out the door, “he got ways of getting what he wants, and I’m sure he wants Clair to stay on as much as the rest of us. See ye in the morning.”
“Wait, Nate,” said Clair, and running to him, she stood awkwardly for a second, then smiling up into the eyes twinkling down on her, she said breathlessly, “Thank you—and tell everyone I’m—I’m pleased with the vote.”
“You got lots of time to do that yourself, miss,” he said, and with a wink, let himself out the door. Turning to Willamena, Clair attempted a smile that offered a repose to the strife forever breeding between them. But it’s not the mind of a foe to kiss the feet of its victor, and receiving naught but the glitter of two beady eyes hard fixed upon her, she hurried back to her room, closing her door. And as if to champion her tally, the most pleasing of melodies danced through her window that night. Opening her curtain just a little, she lay back on her bed, gazing into the dark.
“
LIKE I WAS SAYING,”
said Roddy, “Henry starts leading Sammy and Conner up over the hill. It was a hard climb, and straight up, and then they were all swooshing down this slippery, grassy path, back out on the beach on the other side of the cliff. And just a ways up was Copy-Cat Cove. And that’s a real bad one, miss, Copy-Cat Cove is, like a rock cavern cut right into a cliff and fills right up with water so there’s no beach going around her, except when the water’s low. And the water’s so filled with kelp, it’s like soup, and it makes this awful sound when it swishes up agin the sides of the cavern and then echoes back at you—spookier than anything. And when Henry looks inside of it, he gets the jeepers at how darkish it is, and how spooky the kelp sounds swishing in the water agin the rocks. But he seen that the tide was down and that there was a bit of a beach going around the inside. Then he hears this laughing coming from up the beach, on the other side of the cavern.
“Cooping down a bit, he runs with Sammy and Conner down to the edge of the beach as far as the water would let them, straining to see around to the other side of the cavern. They sees a boat, pulled up. Then three men comes out of the woods, laughing and staggering, lugging burlap sacks filled up with something.
“‘What’d you think he got in the bag, Henry?’ asked Conner. He sounded worried-like.
“Henry looked at him, thinking, You old conner, still trying to con me, is you? So he says, ‘I dunno, Conner. Do you think it might be youngsters they’s going to fry up for supper? Come on, Sammy, they’s just having fun, is all. Not scared like Conner, is you?’
“Sammy shook his head and off Henry goes, back towards the cavern, whistling away and not showing a bit of fright. And he don’t walk around the inside of the cavern on the little bit of beach. No sir, he walks right into the water, no matter it was so cold it started freezing his legs the second it struck his skin. Nope, sir, buddy, right through the water, he sloused. Then he looked back and seen Sammy making his way around the bit of beach, holding the gun up so’s it don’t get wet.
“‘Cripes, hide the gun,’ Henry sang out to Sammy. And meantime, he screwed up his face at Conner who was creeping behind Sammy, looking right scared.
“‘Taking your time, is you, Conner?’ he bawled out. ‘My son, you’re not going to live in my house if you don’t hurry up and get your arse over here.’ And that’s when them fellows turned around and seen him.
“‘What’re ye little buggers doing here?’ one of them snarled—just like a old wolf.
“‘We’re just going up the Basin,’ Henry called back, slousing his way to shore.
“‘And what’re ye going to be blabbing up there?’ asked the surly one.
“‘Nothing,’ said Henry, starting to figure that these fellows weren’t from and here, nowhere—not with dirty, long hair like that and scraggly whiskers. Then he thinks— perhaps it’s them foreign fishers that stole the youngster off the wharf that time and boiled him in hot tar in the bowels of their boat. And then the strangers started running at him. And that’s when Sammy comes out of cavern, and they sees him too. And Henry starts bawling out, ‘Sammy, run, run!’ And that’s all, miss.”
“Wait!” said Clair, holding out her hand to stay Roddy. “Wait—can’t we hear the end of the story now?”
“Nope. I can only tell it in bits, miss,” said Roddy proudly, walking back to his seat.
“Well, I think everyone would like it if you told the rest of the story now,” said Clair.
“Can’t, miss.”
“Why not?”
“The rock won’t let him,” burst out Marty.
“Oh, yeah, my son,” shouted back Roddy.
“Sshh, Marty,” said Clair. “That’s fine, then, Roddy. You and the rest of the grade sixes take out your history books, and everybody else, I wants you to start reading the next story in your readers, except for the primers; I’m going to give ye a copy. Roddy, it’s a really good story, and we’re all waiting to hear what happens next. Do you think you might finish it tomorrow?”
Roddy shrugged, taking out his history book.
“It might be nice if you were to finish it tomorrow,” Clair insisted, and then smiling to the room at large, she added more softly, “I guess we’re all a little concerned as to what happens to Henry at this point.”
“DID YOU HEAR BACK FROM FRANKIE YET?”
Clair asked Willamena that afternoon, hurrying in through the door after school was finished for the day.
“Matter of fact,” said Willamena, dawdling at the bin over a cup of tea, “I just heard a minute ago. Here, you want this cup? I’ll make another.”
Clair stared at her. Not for nothing had she weathered this woman’s scorn the past few weeks. Watching the grace now with which she laid the cup of tea on the table, a dread settled over Clair. “What did he say?” she asked.
“He never said nothing,” replied Willamena. “Frankie was already after leaving.” She turned to Clair, a smile thinning further the scant line of her lips. “With the teacher. The school board wouldn’t have held with what you was asking anyway,” she added, “so it’s just as well.”
“He’s on his way?”
“Yup.”
“With the teacher?”
“We haves the vote day after tomorrow—Friday. I expects Frankie home on Monday—with the teacher. Tomorrow will be your last day as teacher. I shouldn’t wonder you’ll be wanting to go home after the vote. Like I said, we needs someone to witness the box. You’re not old enough, but I’m sure they’ll let it pass, seeing’s how you’ve been acting as the teacher here the past weeks.”
“But Frankie doesn’t know I wants to stay. Perhaps when he—they—gets here—and he learns about the vote …” she trailed off as Willamena straightened to her full height.
“I haven’t said much,” she said loudly, “but I don’t think it’s fair, you expecting more from us than what we’ve already done. I should think you’d be grateful for Frankie’s asking you in the first place—what with your parents dying and Sim going to hire you out. Yes, that’s right; Sim was going to hire you out—to a woman down Bear Cove somewhere. It’s no odds my telling you that now, although Frankie won’t like it that I did. But I don’t think it’s right, you playing on people’s feelings like this. They needs a real teacher for their youngsters, not someone they feels sorry for. And besides, Sim’s not for hiring you out any more. He wants you to help take care of the grandmother and Missy—and him, too, from the sounds of it. There. Frankie won’t like it that I’ve told, but it’s only to help him I did—so’s he won’t have a ruckus on his hands with the new teacher when he gets here.”
A sickness had crept into Clair’s stomach. “What makes you think Uncle Sim was going to hire me out?”
“Because he come to Dad and asked him to find somebody, that’s how. And I told Frankie. And that’s when Frankie went to the school—although he says he never pointed you out, but I think he did, just to help Sim.”
“Does everyone else know—Nora, Beth—about the uncle hiring me out?” she asked quietly, steadily.
“Frankie said it best not to tell your business.”
Clair fell silent, her eyes searching out Willamena’s. Then, “Say nothing to Nora and Beth about the new teacher coming,” she said firmly, “that will stave off the ruckus,” and still wearing her coat, she walked towards her room. Suddenly Clair turned and bolted back across the kitchen and out through the porch and onto the patch. A damp fog met her, and a cold wind. Turning away from the patch, she ran out onto the bank and down on the beach, stumbling a little as she hurried up along shore. Out of sight of the houses, she slowed her step, bundling her coat more tightly against the cold, and allowing the sparse trickling of a tear to mingle with the fog misting her cheeks. Sniffling hard, she sought to wipe it away, but the wind splayed it across her face, numbing her skin even more. She came upon an old, uprooted tree lying across the beach, and searching for warmth, she crouched to its lee. The waves rolled harder upon the shore, the fog thickened, and the wind moaned a little stronger. Yet, she stayed, huddled into the once-strong birch. When it felt as if she might sleep, she rose, her knees stiff, her shoulders sore, and turned back towards the houses.
The patch remained quiet for the rest of the evening with its strong winds and fog. She had said no to Willamena’s offering of a late supper, and an invitation extended to her from Nora to come for tea. Lying across her bed, she waited, listening. He was earlier this evening. And when his song began, it was broken, restless, as was his impatient urging for the dog Tricksy to quieten. Then he played no more. She rose, her shadow playing around the edges of her curtain. Silence, still. And finally, when dark had fully draped her window, she succumbed to her pillow and the quiet outside. Where was he then, with his song on this night?