The Shipping News Part 15

"There was five families lived here when my dad was a boy, the Prettys, the Pools, the Sops, the Pilleys, the Cusletts. Every family was married with every other family. Boy, they was kind, [165] good people, and the likes of them are gone now. Now it's every man for himself. And woman, too."

He tried to lift a fallen section of fence from the weeds, but it broke in his hands and he only cleared away the tangle from the upright section, braced it with rocks.

They walked up to the high gaze that gave the island its name, a knoll on the edge of the cliff with a knot of spruce in one corner, all hemmed around with a low wall of stones. Quoyle, turning, could look down to the cup of harbor, could turn again, look at the open sea, at distant s.h.i.+ps heading for Europe or Montreal. Liquid turquoise below. To the north two starched sheet icebergs. There, the smoke of Killick-Claw. Far to the east, almost invisible, a dark band like rolled gauze.

"They could see a s.h.i.+p far out in any direction from here. They'd put the cows up here in the summer. Never a cow in Newfoundland had a better view."

They walked over the moss and heather to a cemetery. A fence of blunt pickets enclosed crosses and wooden markers, many fallen on the ground, their letters faded by cold light. Billy Pretty knelt in the corner, tugged at wild gra.s.s. The top of the wooden marker was cut in three arcs to resemble a stone, the paint still legible:

W. Pretty born 1897 died 1934 Through the great storms of life he did his best, G.o.d grant him eternal rest.

"That's me poor father," said Billy Pretty. "Fifteen was I when he died." He sc.r.a.ped away, pulling weeds from a coffin-shaped frame that enclosed the grave. It was painted with a design of black and white diamonds, still sharp.

"Painted this up the last time I was over," said Billy, opening his bag and taking out tins of paint, two brushes, "and I'll do it again now."

Quoyle thought of his own father, wondered if the aunt still had his ashes. There had been no ceremony. Should they put up a marker? A faint sense of loss rose in him.

[166] Suddenly he could see his father, see the trail of ground cherry husks leading from the garden around the edge of the lawn where he walked while he ate them. The man had a pa.s.sion for fruit. Quoyle remembered purple-brown seckle pears the size and shape of figs, his father taking the meat off with pecking bites, the smell of fruit in their house, litter of cores and peels in the ashtrays, the grape cl.u.s.ter skeletons, peach stones like hens' brains on the windowsill, the glove of banana peel on the car dashboard. In the sawdust on the bas.e.m.e.nt workbench galaxies of seeds and pits, cherry stones, long white date pits like s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps. Strawberries in the refrigerator, and in June the car parked on a country road and the father on his knees picking wild strawberries in the weeds. The hollowed grapefruit skullcaps, cracked globes of tangerine peel.

Other fathers took their sons on fis.h.i.+ng and camping trips, but Quoyle and his brother had blueberry expeditions. They whined with rage as the father disappeared into the bushes, leaving them in the sour heat holding plastic containers. One time the brother, face swollen with crying and insect bites, picked only fifteen or twenty berries. The father approached them, arms straining with the weight of two br.i.m.m.i.n.g pails. Then the brother began to cry, pointed at Quoyle. Said Quoyle had taken his berries. Liar. Quoyle had picked half a quart, the bottom of his pail decently covered. Got a whipping with a branch torn from a blueberry bush, with the first stroke berries raining. On the way home he stared into the berry pails watching green worms, stink bugs, ants, aphids, limping spiders come creeping up chimneys to the surface of the fruit where they beat the air and wondered. Backs of his thighs on fire.

The man spent hours in the garden. How many times, thought Quoyle, had his father leaned on his hoe and gazed down the rows of string beans, saying "Some sweet land we got here, boy." He'd thought it was the immigrant's patriotic sentiment, but now balanced it against the scoured childhood on a salt-washed rock. His father had been enchanted with deep soil. Should have been a farmer. Guessing at the dead man too late.

Billy Pretty might have heard him thinking.

"By rights," he said, "my dad should have been a farmer. He was a Home boy on his way to Ontario to be hired out to a farmer."

[167] "Home boy?" It meant nothing to Quoyle.

"From a Home. Part orphanage, part a place where they put children if the parents couldn't keep them, or if they were running wild on the streets. England and Scotland just swept them up by the thousand and s.h.i.+pped them over to Canada. My father was the son of a printer in London, but it was a big family and the father died when he was only eleven. It was because he was a printer's son that he could read and write very well. His name was not Pretty then. He was born William Ankle. His mother had all the others, you see, so she put him in a Home. There used to be Homes all over the UK UK. Maybe there still are. The Barnardo Homes, the Sears Home, the National Children's Homes, the Fegan Home, the Church of England Bureau, the Quarrier Homes and more and more. He was in the Sears Home. They showed him pictures of boys picking big red apples in a sunny orchard, said that was Canada, wouldn't he like to go? He used to tell us how juicy those apples looked. Yes, he said.

"So, a few days later he was on this s.h.i.+p, the Aramania Aramania, on his way to Canada. This is in 1909. They gave him a little tin trunk with some clothes, a Bible, a brush and comb and a signed photograph of Reverend Sears. He told us about that trip many times. There were three hundred and fourteen children, boys and girls, on that s.h.i.+p, all of them signed on to help farmers. He said many of them were only three or four years old. They had no idea what was happening to them, where they were going. Just little waifs s.h.i.+pped abroad to a life of rural slavery. For you see, he kept in touch with some of the survivors he'd made friends with on the Aramania Aramania."

"Survivors of what?"

"The s.h.i.+pwreck, my boy, and how he came here. We spoke of the names of rocks on the way out, you'll remember, but there's other things in the sea that's a mortal danger, and they can never have names because they s.h.i.+ft and prowl and vanish." He pointed at the icebergs on the horizon. "Remember, in 1909 they didn't have ice patrols and radar and weather faxes. You took your chance in iceberg alley. And my father's s.h.i.+p, like the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic only three years later, ran onto an iceberg in the bitter June twilight. Right [168] out there, right off Gaze Island. There's no chart for icebergs. Of those three hundred and fourteen children only twenty-four were saved. Official count was twenty-three. And they were saved because young Joe Sop-that was later Skipper Joe, master of one of the last Banks fis.h.i.+ng schooners-come up to the Gaze to get the cow and saw the lights and heard the children screeching and crying as they went into the icy water. only three years later, ran onto an iceberg in the bitter June twilight. Right [168] out there, right off Gaze Island. There's no chart for icebergs. Of those three hundred and fourteen children only twenty-four were saved. Official count was twenty-three. And they were saved because young Joe Sop-that was later Skipper Joe, master of one of the last Banks fis.h.i.+ng schooners-come up to the Gaze to get the cow and saw the lights and heard the children screeching and crying as they went into the icy water.

"He run down to the houses bawling out there was a s.h.i.+pwreck. Every boat in the place put out, there was two widow women pulled oars and saved three children, and they got what they could, but it was too late for most. You only last a little in that water. Freezes the blood in your veins, you go numb and die in the time it would take us to walk back to the old house.

"Weeks later another s.h.i.+pload of Home children on the way to Canada anch.o.r.ed offsh.o.r.e and sent in a small boat to take the survivors, to send them on to their original destination. But my father didn't want to go. He'd found a home here with the Prettys and they hid him, told the officials there was a mistake in the count of the saved-only twenty-three. Poor William Ankle was lost. And so my father changed his name to William Pretty and here he grew up and led an independent life. And if it was not happy, he didn't know it.

"If he'd gone on with the others he'd likely have gone into a miserable life. You ask me, Canada was built on the slave labor of those poor Home children, worked to the bone, treated like dirt, half starved and crazed with lonesomeness. See, my father kept in touch with three of the boys that lived, and they wrote back and forth. I've still got some of those letters-poor wretched boys whose families had cast them off, who survived a s.h.i.+pwreck and the freezing sea, and went on, friendless and alone, to a harsh life."

Quoyle's eyes moist, imagining his little daughters, orphaned, traveling across the cold continent to a savage farmer.

"Now, mind you, it was never easy at the Prettys', never easy on Gaze Island, but they had the cows and a bit of hay, and the berries, the fish and their potato patches, and they'd get their flour and bacon in the fall from the merchant over at Killick-Claw, and [169] if it was hard times, they shared, they helped their neighbor. No, they didn't have any money, the sea was dangerous and men were lost, but it was a satisfying life in a way people today do not understand. There was a joinery of lives all worked together, smooth in places, or lumpy, but joined. The work and the living you did was the same things, not separated out like today.

"Father'd get those pathetic letters, sometimes six months after they was written, and he'd read them out loud here and the tears would stream down people's faces. Oh, how they wanted to get their hands on those hard Ontario farmers. There was never a one from Gaze Island that voted for confederation with Canada! My father would of wore a black armband on Confederation Day. If he'd lived that long.

"One of those boys, Lewis Thom, never had a bed of his own, had to sleep in the musty hay, had no shoes or boots and wrapped his feet in rags. They fed him potato peels and crusts, what they'd give to the pig. They beat him every day until he was the color of a dark rainbow, yellow and red and green and blue and black. He worked from lantern light to lantern light while the farmer's children went to school and socials. His hair grew down his back, all matted with c.l.i.ts and tangles. He tried to trim it with a hand-sickle. You can guess how that looked. He was lousy and dirty. The worst was the way they made fun of him, scorned him because he was a Home boy, jeered and made his life h.e.l.l. In the end they cheated him of his little wage and finally turned him adrift in the Ontario winter when he was thirteen. He went on to another farmer who was worse, if can be. Never, never once in the years he worked on the farms-and he slaved at it because he didn't know anything else until he was killed in an accident when he was barely twenty-never once did anyone say a kind word to him since he got off the s.h.i.+p in Montreal. He wrote to my father that only his letters kept him from taking his life. He had to steal the paper he wrote on. He planned to come out to Newfoundland but he died before he could.

"The other two had a miserable time of it as well. Oh I remember our dad lying on the daybed and stretching out his feet [170] and telling us about those poor lonely boys, slaves to the cruel Canadian farmers. He'd say, 'Count your blessings that you're in a snug harbor.'

"My father taught all his children to read and write. In the winter when the fis.h.i.+ng was over and the storms wrapped Gaze Island, my father would hold school right down there in the kitchen of the old house. Yes, every child on this island learned to read very well and write a fine hand. And if he got a bit of money he'd order books for us. I'll never forget one time, I was twelve years old and it was November, 1933. Couple of years before he died of TB TB. Hard, hard times. You can't imagine. The fall mail boat brought a big wooden box for my father. Nailed shut. Cruel heavy. He would not open it, saved it for Christmas. We could hardly sleep nights for thinking of that box and what it might hold. We named everything in the world except what was there. On Christmas Day we dragged that box over to the church and everybody craned their necks and gawked to see what was in it. Dad pried it open with a screech of nails and there it was, just packed with books. There must have been a hundred books there, picture books for children, a big red book on volcanoes that gripped everybody's mind the whole winter-it was a geological study, you see, and there was plenty of meat in it. The last chapter in the book was about ancient volcanic activity in Newfoundland. That was the first time anybody had ever seen the word Newfoundland in a book. It just about set us on fire-an intellectual revolution. That this place this place was in a book. See, we thought we was all alone in the world. The only dud was a cookbook. There was not one single recipe in that book that could be made with what we had in our cupboards. was in a book. See, we thought we was all alone in the world. The only dud was a cookbook. There was not one single recipe in that book that could be made with what we had in our cupboards.

"I never knew how he paid for those books or if they were a present, or what. One of the three boys he wrote to on the farms moved to Toronto when he grew up and became an elevator operator. He was the one who picked the books out and sent them. Perhaps he paid for them, too. I'll never know."

The new paint gleamed on the wood, the fresh letters black and sharp.

"Well, I wonder if I'll make it out here again upright or lying down. I'd better have my stone carved deep because there's n.o.body [171] to paint me up every few years except some nephews and nieces down in St. John's."

Quoyle wondering about William Ankle. "What did it mean, what your father said about the tall, quiet woman. You said it about Wavey Prowse. Something your father used to say. A poem or a saying."

"Ar, that? Let's see. Used to say there was four women in every man's heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman. It was just a thing he said. I don't know what it means. I don't know where he got it."

"You were never married Billy?"

"Between you and me, I had a personal affliction and didn't want anybody to know."

Quoyle's hand to his chin.

"Half that stuff," said Billy, "that s.e.x stuff Nutbeem and Tert Card spews out, I don't know what they mean. What there could be in it." What he knew was that women were shaped like leaves and men fell.

He pointed down the slope, away from the sea.

"Another cemetery there. An old cemetery." A plot lower down enclosed with beach rubble. They walked toward it. Straggling wildness. A few graves marked with lichened cairns, the rest lost in impenetrable tangle. Billy's brilliant eyes fixed Quoyle, waiting for something.

"I wouldn't have known it was a cemetery. It looks very old."

"Oh yes. Very old indeed. 'Tis the cemetery of the Quoyles."

Satisfied with the effect on Quoyle whose mouth hung open, head jerked back like a snake surprised by a mirror.

"They were wrackers they say, come to Gaze Island centuries ago and made it their evil lair. Pirate men and women that lured s.h.i.+ps onto the rocks. When I was a kid we'd dig in likely places. Turn over stones, see if there was a black box below."

"Here!" Quoyle's hair bristled. The winding tickle, the hidden harbor.

"See over here, them flat rocks all laid out? That's where your house stood as was dragged away over the ice to Quoyle's Point [172] with a wrangle-gangle mob of islanders behind them. For over the years others came and settled. Drove the Quoyles away. Though the crime that finally tipped the scales was their disinclination to attend Pentecostal services. Religion got a strong grip on Gaze Island in that time, but it didn't touch the Quoyles. So they left, took their house and left, bawling out launchin' songs as they went."

"Dear G.o.d," said Quoyle. "Does the aunt know all this?"

"Ar, she must. She never told you?"

"Quiet about the past," said Quoyle, shaking his head, thinking, no wonder.

"Truth be told," said Billy, "there was many, many people here depended on s.h.i.+pwracks to improve their lots. Save what lives they could and then strip the vessel bare. Seize the luxuries, b.u.t.ter, cheese, china plates, silver coffeepots and fine chests of drawers. There's many houses here still has treasures that come off wracked s.h.i.+ps. And the pirates always come up from the Caribbean water to Newfoundland for their crews. A place of natural pirates and wrackers."

They walked back to the gaze for another look, Quoyle trying to imagine himself as a G.o.dless pirate spying for prey or enemy.

Billy shouted when he saw the gauzy horizon had become a great billowing wall less than a mile away, a curtain of fog rolling over maroon water.

"Get going, boy," shouted Billy, slipping and sliding down the path to the harbor beach, his paint cans knocking together. Quoyle panted after him.

The motor blatted and in a few minutes they were inside the tickle.

21.

Poetic Navigation "Fog ... The warm water of the Gulf Stream penetrating high lat.i.tudes is productive of fog, especially in the vicinity of the Grand Banks where the cold water of the Labrador Current makes the contrast in the temperatures of adjacent waters most striking."

THE MARINER'S DICTIONARY

WHEN they came again into the maze of rocks the fog bank was two thousand yards away. they came again into the maze of rocks the fog bank was two thousand yards away.

"Give us ten minutes to get clear of the rocks and the currents and take a course on Killick-Claw and we'll be all right," said Billy, steering the boat through a crooked course Quoyle could only guess at.

"These was the rocks the Quoyles lured s.h.i.+ps onto." Shouted. Quoyle thought he felt the haul of the current sweeping along the cliffs, stared into the water as though looking for waterlogged hulks in the depths. They cut around a fissured rock that Billy called the Net-Man.

" 'Cause you'd lose something, floats or pots or a good piece of line and it was uncanny how it'd end up wrapped around the [174] Net-Man. Some kind of swirly current carried things onto it, I suppose, and they stuck in the clefts."

"There's something on it now," said Quoyle. "Something like a box. Hold on, Billy, it's a suitcase." Billy came around the gurgling rock, handed Quoyle a gaff hook.

"Be quick about it." The suitcase was stranded high on a rock, washed up by the now-retreating tide. It rested on a small shelf, as though someone had just set it down. Quoyle hooked the rope handle and yanked. The weight of the suitcase sent it tumbling into the sea. As it bobbed to the surface he clawed with the hook, drew it near. At last he could reach over and grip the handle. Heavy, but he got it aboard. Billy said nothing, worked the throttled boat through the sunkers.

The suitcase was black with seawater. Expensive looking but with a rope handle. There was something about it. He tried the latches but it was locked. The fog came on them, thick, blotting out everything. Even Billy in the back of the boat was faded and insubstantial. Directionless, no horizon nor sky.

"By G.o.d, Quoyle, you're a wracker! You're a real Quoyle with your gaff, there."

"It's locked. We'll have to pick it open when we get back."

"That might take a little while," said Billy. "We'll have to smell our way in. We're not out of the rocks yet. We'll just marl along until we gets clear of them."

Quoyle strained his eyes until they stung and saw nothing. Uneasiness came over him, that crawling dread of things unseen. The ghastly unknown tinctured by thoughts of pirate Quoyles. Ancestors whose filthy blood ran in his veins, who murdered the s.h.i.+pwrecked, drowned their unwanted brats, fought and howled, beards braided in spikes with burning candles jammed into their hair. Pointed sticks, hardened in the fire.

A rock loomed on the starboard bow, a great tower in twisting vapor.

"Ah, just right. 'Tis the Home Rock. Now we're on a straight run. We'll smell Killick-Claw's smoke pretty soon and sniff along in."

[175] "Billy, we saw the Home Rock on the way to the island. It was just a low rock barely a foot out of the water. This thing is enormous. It can't be the same rock."

"Yes, it is. She sticks up a little more now because tide's going out, and she's in the fog. It's fog-loom makes it look big to you. It's an optical illusion, is the old fog-loom. Makes a dory look like an oil tanker."

The boat muttered through the blind white. Quoyle clenched the gunwales and despaired. Billy said he could smell the chimneys of Killick-Claw, fifteen miles across the water, and something else, something rotten and foul.

"I don't like that stink. Like a whale washed up on a beach the third week of hot weather. It seems to get stronger as we go. Maybe there is a dead whale floating along in the fog. You listen for the bell buoy that marks the Ram and the Lamb. We could easy miss the entrance in this fog."

After nearly an hour Billy said he heard the rut of the sh.o.r.e, the waves breaking on stone, and then a pair of needle-shaped rocks rose in the gloom of fog and encroaching night.

"Whoa," said Billy Pretty. "That's the Knitting Pins. We're east of Killick-Claw by a bit. But not far from Desperate Cove. What do y'think, put in there and wait until the fog lifts before heading back up the coast? Oh, there used to be a good little restaurant in Desperate Cove. Let's see now if I can remember how to get in. I never come in here by water since I was a boy."

"For G.o.d's sake, Billy, this water is full of rocks." Another foaming ma.s.s of black reared from the fog. But Billy knew his way by a rhyme pulled from the old days when poor men sailed by memory, without charts, compa.s.s or lights.

When the Knitting Pins you is abreast,Desperate Cove bears due west.Behind the Pins you must steer'Til The Old Man's Shoe does appear.The tickle lies just past the toe,It's narrow, you must slowly go.

[176] The old man brought the boat around behind the Knitting Pins and felt his way along current and sucking tide.

"There's a dozen tricks to find your way-listen for the rut of the sh.o.r.e, call out and hear the echo off the cliffs, feel the run of current beneath you-or smell the different flavors of the coves. Me dad could name a hundred miles of coast by the taste of air."

A hump of rock, the sound of licking water, then a slow putter along a breaking ridge of rock. In amazement Quoyle heard a car door slam, heard the engine start and the vehicle drive away. He could see nothing. But in a minute a glow on a stagehead showed and Billy brought the boat up, climbed out and slipped a mooring line over a bollard.

"That stink," he said, "is coming from the suitcase."

"It's probably the leather," said Quoyle. "Starting to rot. How far to the restaurant? I don't want to leave it here."

"The place was right across the road. The tourists come in the summer with their cameras, you know, at, they'll sit here all day long and watch the water. It's like it's a strange animal, they can't take their eyes off it."

"You'd know why if you came from Sudbury or New Jersey," said Quoyle.

"Here. It's here. I can smell cooking oil stronger than the stink of that suitcase. You leave that suitcase outside."

There were no customers, the waitress and the cook sitting companionably at one of the tables, both tatting lace doilies. A smell of bread, the daily baking for the next day.

"Girl, we're that starved," said Billy.

"Skipper Billy! Give me a start coming in out of the fog that way."

The cook put her tatting aside and stood next to the chalkboard.