Waiting for Time (12 page)

She becomes serious, “No one goes back to Chance Harbour, girl. Not if they can get a job somewhere else. Oh it's a pretty enough place in summertime, you should see people from away sayin' how nice it is when they visit—and it is, too—all sea and sky and green hills—but you can't live on that, can you? ‘Tis something else in February with a nor'east gale comin’ in the cove and not able to see a hand before? your face for blowin' snow. No, Chance Harbour is no place to go back to. Me mother says the same—she's the one drilled into me that I had to get away—most of the women tell their daughters that. Who wouldn't after six weeks on some friggin' winter make-work project? I seen me mother down by the breakwater movin' rocks around by hand, another time she was cooped up in the school every night tryin' to learn typing she knew she'd never use.” For a moment Lori seems on the verge of tears but she swallows, eats the last bit of omelette and asks Lav why she doesn't make herself known to her relations.

Lav doesn't understand what the girl means.

“Well, you said your father was a Newfoundlander—maybe you've got people here—why don't you make yourself known to them?”

“I don't think so—I hadn't even considered it. My father died in the war, before I was born, and I've never had contact with any of his family.”

“For all that there'd be people here belongs to you,” Lori is her businesslike self again. “You'd have no trouble trackin' your people down—just say you're tracin' your family tree. Mainlanders are down here doin' that all the time. Know your grandfather's name?” she asks, already leafing through the phone book.

“My grandfather's name was Ki—short for Hezekiah. My father's name was David,” Lav tells her, casually as if she has spoken those names a million times.

“Well there you are, then! All you got to do is phone someone with the same name. I bet there's Hezekiahs in this book—there's still a good many of them old names around—I was named Dolores, for God's sake!”

She looks up from her search long enough to give Lav a half-ashamed smile. “Anyone 'round here'll tell you if they're related. Let's see, Anderson, Andres, Andrews—Sweet Lord, there's dozens of 'em!”

“You've been reading Lavinia's journal!” suddenly realizing this must be so, Lav snatches the phone book from the young woman's hands, pushes it back on the shelf.

“I'm sorry,” Lori says but looks only slightly contrite. “I hoped you wouldn't mind—it was just that I got so curious about what you're reading all this time. Do you mind?”

“No—no, of course not. The Ellsworth Journal is public property after all.” This is a lie, of course. She does mind, in fact Lav hates the idea that the journal should be available to Lori Sutton—to any curious person who comes along.

Tired of the girl, of her inquisitive little face, her reaching hands, Lav stacks the dishes and offers, too quickly, to drive her home.

Later, absently watching the news (always the same these days—clips of various men walking into meeting rooms, pausing sometimes in doorways to say that no, they have no comment, really, no comment at this time) Lav finds herself leafing through the St. John's phone book, reading down the list of Andrews names, dialing a randomly picked number, calmly asking some stranger if he knows of any Cape Random Andrews.

On her third call a man listed as Clarence K. Andrews, unsurprised by her question, tells her: “We people are Port de Grave Andrews—yer crew'd be the Bonavista North Andrews. But I'll tell you now the best one for you to get hold of'd be Stephen Andrews' boy—him that owns that place down in Davisporte.”

At that point he calls over his shoulder, “Marg, Marg—you mind the name of that Andrews feller got the place we stayed at down in Davisporte?”

In a second he is back telling her that Young Alf Andrews owns a place, Lav gathers it is a motel, the man seems to have an aversion to the word, called Cat Harbour Inn.

“You'll be able to get the number from Information. 'Tis a queer old name but the place is respectable for all that,” he says, and after wishing her every success hangs up.

Lori is right, it's not hard to find your people in Newfoundland.

But she does not want to call Alf Andrews—at least not yet. She is afraid to commit herself to relatives, living people who cannot be put back on the shelf should she grow tired or be repulsed by them. The knowledge that she is such a coward depresses her.

Still, she falls asleep thinking how pleasant it would be to own the journal, to have it here in the house. The next morning Lav swims up from dreams of fish with a plan to steal the journal blueprinted on her mind. From then on, stealing the journal is the last thing she thinks of before sleep, the first thing she thinks of each morning.

five

“Here's to Oceans 2000—the final draft!” Wayne Drover clicks his glass against Lav's.

They are in Lav's office, having their usual end-of-the-week drink before going to eat. Friday is now the only full day she spends at work—a fact she is sure has not escaped Wayne's notice.

Lav has come to enjoy his company, discovered that when relaxed Wayne Drover has a kind of naive innocence completely at odds with his usual abrasive manner.

“We'll go somewhere special tonight—next Friday we'll be having a little wrap-up party at the office—and the following Monday the Minister'll be in town for the Oceans 2000 presentation. Next week'll be hell!” Wayne is pacing, pleased at the prospect, the many strings he will pull before next Monday coiled inside him waiting to spring.

Lav does not comment. She has long since stopped objecting to Wayne's deadlines, relinquished all ownership of the project she is technically in charge of.

“You should read our final report,” he tells her. “After all, your team did the groundwork, and when you get back to Ottawa you'll be expected to be familiar with it.”

He stands in front of her desk, staring down at her: “What do you want to do when you go back? Want me to put in a word in the right places?”

She is dismayed by his question. What do I want to do when I go back? Gripping her glass she avoids his sober, judging gaze and stares past him out the window at the cliff. It is still light outside, late April, the days getting longer. It has not occurred to her that she will not be here through the summer.

The silence goes on for some time until Wayne realizes there will be no answer. He shakes his head, “People who don't know what they want never get it,” he says. Then he shrugs, smiles, “Come on, this might be our last supper—I know a special place.”

The special place turns out to be a restaurant set up in a beautiful old house that had once belonged to the Drew family.

“The Drews always had big families, sent their children to private schools, travelled, acquired a taste for beautiful things,” Wayne tells her, pointing to the mahogany panelled doors, the Gibbons-like carving above the mantels, the marquetry along the front of a sideboard.

“Fact is, they owned half the town, rows of houses, shops, newspapers, factories and fish plants—shoes and ships and sealing fleets and councillors and kings.” He likes the phrase and repeats it, “Shoes and ships and sealing fleets and councillors and kings—they still own a good bit of St. John's—of Newfoundland for that matter.”

She has never told Wayne what she knows about the Drew family, about the part of their story written into Lavinia's journal by Mary, nor does she now. She has no desire to talk. The question he has posed is still echoing through her head, what will she do when she returns to Ottawa? To keep her future out of the discussion, to keep from talking about herself, Lav asks if the Drews are still fish merchants.

“Na—none of their money comes from fish these days, at least not directly. But every time anyone here buys a can of milk or a bottle of booze, every time we switch on a light or an oven, or even sign a petition for an environmental impact study, we're making a small contribution to the Drew empire. Today, of course, the Drew name is probably not even on the letterhead—but you can bet some uncle, some lawyer cousin or ne'er-do-well in-law got a finger in every Newfoundland pie from Hibernia to Hydro, from Doreen's Decorating to Dickie Dunn's taxi.”

He smiles across the table, the smile implies knowledge of all the Drew secrets, “I, Wayne Drover, am as important as family, as necessary as graft to the Drews!” the smile says. And Lav wonders, not for the first time, why he lets her see these things about him—and why he has any need for her company.

“But enough of that old stuff! Eat up, maid, the boys are workin'!” he nods at her plate, refills her wine glass, asks if she knows anything about folk music.

When Lav shakes her head he proceeds to instruct her on the subject. Quoting from old ballads he traces the roots of Newfoundland music back to pre-Elizabethan courtiers and Irish bards. He has, he tells her, collected old broadsheets for years. To her utter astonishment—ignoring the waiter standing nearby, ignoring the regal, grey-haired couple seated in the corner—he begins to sing.

As I walked forth in the pride of the season,

Thinking some pastime there for to see,

Who should I spy but a lovely fair damsel,

Sitting alone 'neath a green willow tree.…

Wayne Drover has a pleasing voice, he sings softly, holding his glass against his white shirt, staring down into the wine.

Lav feels relaxed, happy. Why grieve for the past or worry for the future when one can sit surrounded by beautiful things, can sip wine, eat good food—can, in the soft glow of candlelight, have a man sing you a lament about love and betrayal under green willow trees?

When they leave the restaurant Wayne suggests they go downtown, find some live music. He is still full of energy. It is a mild evening, they can walk, he says.

Down over the hill it's cooler, Lav can smell the harbour, feel the salt mist. Yet people lounge in doorways and the narrow sidestreets are crowded with university students moving from pub to pub in noisy, laughing groups. Most of the merrymakers are much younger than Lav or Wayne—and so is their music. They linger at one or two places, have a drink, Wayne waves to several people but never settles or stops to talk.

Lav expects to encounter Lori Sutton but they do not—maybe the girl works on Friday nights. In one bar they catch sight of Mark Rodway. He is squashed into a corner beside a pale blonde. Wayne sees Mark too, waves and smiles, “That laddeo got his own agenda, wouldn't trust him far as I could throw him,” he tells Lav.

Back near the restaurant where they had left their cars Wayne stops under a street light, “Don't s'pose you're an optimist by any chance, Lav Andrews?” he asks.

The mist has turned to fog, so thick that they seem to be standing inside a hollow cloud. Fingers of fog, moist with sea salt, brush Lav's face and catch in her hair. She finds herself thinking that she probably looks quite nice. She is relaxed, slightly tipsy.

But she understands what he is asking, “I'll take a taxi home—there must be a phone in there,” she says and turns, walking quickly down the side lane towards the restaurant.

He catches up to her, “Hey Lav—don't you tie green ribbons in your hair? Lie down under shady green trees?” He walks by her side, not touching her, not even turning to look at her.

“No, no I don't. I don't think many people do these days,” she says matter-of-factly. The question seems so impersonal that she has no feeling of rejecting him.

“Oh,” he says, thinking it over, “Too bad—yes—yes, I suppose you're right.”

A fog-horn moans out and he stops again, listening, “Isn't that the grandest sound you ever heard? Sometimes I think I'll get one rigged up on my deck in Ottawa. I did tape that fog-horn on CBC radio—you know, the one on the special report for mariners and ships at sea.”

He imitates the CBC voice, “‘Freezing spray tonight off the Funk Island Banks. Navigation light number 046 off Gunners Rock is out. Drifting wreckage has been sighted east of Bankero’—wonderful stuff—better than poetry.” Wayne Drover shakes his head at his own foolishness. He seems to have forgotten his proposition, if such it had been.

They walk on through the damp silence. Lav resisting the impulse to take his hand—the gesture would be misinterpreted.

That night, lying in bed planning the theft of the journal, she is aware of the foghorn's wail drifting up from the harbour. She will miss the sound. Were there foghorns on the Cape? If so why had Lavinia never mentioned them? What sounds had the Cape Random people heard—sea sounds and storm sounds, birds singing perhaps? Her mind moves back and forth between past and present. As she sinks into sleep, faintly, below the plaintive wail Lav hears a man's voice, he is singing about love and fair damsels sitting under shady green trees—the song is familiar and for a moment she is on the Cape, is Lavinia Andrews dancing around a fire, pining for Thomas Hutchings.

The next morning, driving through thick fog to the archive, she hears the foghorn and remembers herself in that moment before sleep when she had merged into Lavinia's skin, known Lavinia's body and Lavinia's longing as her own. The mixing of dreams and reality—the idea frightens her. Is it better to have no history or an imagined one?