An Audience of Chairs Page 12

  Bun answers the phone after the first ring and as soon as he hears Moranna’s voice, wants to know if she’s okay. Then he asks if there’s any chance she’s phoning from home.

  “No. From the inn.” The pub is part of Inverary Inn.

  “Well, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours too. I’ve been worried that maybe something had gone wrong, a road accident or another gall bladder attack.” Bun had an attack the last time he was in Baddeck.

  “I’m fine. It’s my mother who’s under the weather. She’s recovering from a hip replacement.”

  “I thought she was far down on the waiting list.”

  “There was a last-minute cancellation and she was done just before Christmas. We spent two weeks in St. John’s and got home yesterday.”

  “How is she?”

  “Tired but feeling good enough to bug me about taking down the decorations.”

  Every Christmas, Doris has Bun drape the trees and shrubs on their property with lights, put the wooden Santa his grandfather made on the roof and prop the reindeer on the slope Doris calls the lawn. Bun drives all the way to Fox Harbour every year to perform these rituals of Christmas, leaving Moranna on her own to ignore them. Travelling home in winter means Bun has to take the Port aux Basques ferry to Newfoundland and drive nine hours to Fox Harbour. He goes home again in the spring to work on the Argentia ferry, which is a twenty-minute drive from his mother’s house.

  Moranna and Bun met on the Port aux Basques ferry, nineteen years after Duncan deserted her and ten years after her father died. By then she had settled into the farmhouse, begun a wood-carving business and was more or less resigned to living alone, also to the fact that she was subject to extreme highs and lows. The lows were with her most mornings when she awoke, and after making herself dress, she played the piano board because she knew that more than anything music had the power to lift the morning gloom and clear her head. The highs were more difficult to control and she often didn’t see them coming. Rest and regular habits were important, but these didn’t obviate being suddenly overtaken by a grandiose scheme. Impetuous and impressionable, she was prey to shifting ambitions. But she had at least learned to recognize the early signs: the mercurial high, the prickly unease and twitchiness, the unnerving stillness that made her apprehensive and restless. Even as she felt the storm’s approach, she was powerless to stop herself from being seized by the overwhelming conviction that she was larger than life, that there was nothing she couldn’t do. She lacked both the insight and will to curb the ambition, but she knew she could curb some of the excess energy by taking to the road. Depending on the weather, she would set out, walking south to Whycocomagh or north to the Margaree Valley, both a full day’s walk one way, or she would ride the ferries between Cape Breton and Newfoundland.

  The winter she met Bun, the high swept down and sucked into the eye of the storm, she boarded the Port aux Basques ferry disguised as a man, on her way to St. John’s, where she intended to join the navy. She wasn’t particular about which navy she joined as long as it took her around the world. Her preference was to circumnavigate the world in a balloon, but having no knowledge of where she might locate such a balloon, she had settled on the navy and cut her hair short with a pair of dull scissors, put on a beaver cap and a pair of wool trousers dug out of the attic trunk. The trousers, which had belonged to her grandfather, were too big, but she rolled up the cuffs and used a belt to cinch the waist tight. Shoving the money sock into the pocket of the Army and Navy jacket, she had set off for North Sydney.

  After the shuttle bus disgorged her into the bowels of the ferry, she made her way to the top deck to watch vehicles boarding, most of them transport and half-ton trucks. The orderly procession of vehicles soothed her, as had buying her ticket and boarding the ferry. She thought of these activities as preparation for the life she would have when she joined the navy. After the ramp closed and the ferry was sailing out of the harbour, she stayed on deck in the biting cold, watching the snow-lipped cliffs of Sydney Mines slide past. Spotting the cluster of trailers near the mine head, she remembered that when the Princess Colliery was operating, it extended more than six miles beneath the sea, its roof the fathoms of water the ferry was now ploughing, churning a furrow through the ice.

  When the ferry finally cleared the harbour, Moranna went inside to warm up, but she didn’t stay long. Soon she was pacing the deck in the brutal cold, hands jammed deep into her jacket pockets. There was little of interest on the deck, nothing but stairways, railings and coils of metal rope and she was the only one aboard foolish enough to be out in such weather. There was the sea of course, there was always the sea, but today it was monotonous and grey, hemmed in by an expanse of bobbing ice. When she passed the sleeping cabin windows, she glanced at them but the cabins were a blank, concealed behind closed venetian blinds. When she passed the last window, she noticed the blind had been pulled up and bored, she peered inside, but the window was so badly streaked with salt water all she could make out was a set of bunks and a door. As she pressed her forehead against the cold glass, the better to see, the cabin door opened and a man entered. He noticed her at once and came straight to the window, stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. Moranna leapt back as if she’d been struck. The man stopped clowning and grinned at her, revealing a chipped front tooth. She didn’t grin back but continued staring, affronted, as if he, not she, was the intruder and it was he who turned away first. She watched while he slipped on a parka over his kitchen whites and left the cabin. She moved on to the stern where she stood, her gaze on the slob ice bouncing on either side of the furrowed wake, unaware that the same man had come up to the rail and was standing close by. She didn’t know he was there until he asked if she was a peeping Tom who went around looking in people’s bedroom windows. She didn’t favour him with a reply.

  “So what’s your name?” When she didn’t answer—she would betray her disguise if she spoke—he went on, “Mine’s Bun Clevet.” He took out a package of Camels and offered her one and when she refused lit one for himself. He looked at her speculatively and said, “Why is a good-looking woman like you wearing a rig like that?”

  Moranna was dismayed that he’d seen through the disguise but vain enough to be pleased that he’d said she was good-looking—she hadn’t been told that in a very long time. Even so, flattery wasn’t enough to win more than a scornful reply.

  “None of your business,” she said and gave him the onceover. “Why should I talk to a scarecrow?” With his head cocked to one side, his Raggedy Andy nose and loose, floppy way of moving, he did look like a scarecrow.

  He made a sideways feint. “Aren’t you the scary one. You act like you could eat a man alive.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I stand warned.” He took a long draw on the Camel and said, “So, are you going to tell me where you’re headed?”

  “I’m going to St. John’s to join the navy.”

  “Are you now.” He didn’t laugh at her. He sounded impressed. If he had laughed, she would have stomped off.

  “I want to see the world.”

  “And you think joining the navy dressed like a man is the way to do it?”

  “They won’t take me as a woman, will they?”

  “I think they might, but the navy’s a rough life for a woman.”

  “Maybe I’ll get aboard a freighter instead.” It was the idea of seeing the world that interested Moranna.

  He eyed her quizzically, trying to decide, perhaps, if she was crazy or sane. He flicked the Camel overboard. “Good luck,” he said. “Time for me to get back to work.” Watching him walk away, Moranna noticed that one shoulder was lower than the other and that his hair was tied at the back in a ridiculous hippie knot.

  She didn’t see him again until late next day, by which time she was on the way back to Cape Breton and the high had begun to wane under the rigours of travel and the absence of sleep. Also, crossing Cabot Strait in frigid weather had persuad
ed her that she no longer wanted to face the discomforts of living on a ship in the North Atlantic. As soon as the ferry docked in Newfoundland she bought a return ticket and wandered around Port aux Basques in the desolate cold until, too weary to walk, she went back to the terminal and flopped onto a blue plastic chair, impatient to be aboard. She had been on the ferry so many times that by now it had become a kind of home, a moveable shelter on which she occasionally relied. As soon as the ramp was lowered and she was able to board, she made a beeline for the sleeping lounge on the top deck and stretched out on the floor beneath the reclining chairs. She hadn’t paid for a reclining chair and signs were posted warning passengers not to sleep on the floor, but the lounge was so dark and passengers so few that she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. It was midnight, and hollow with exhaustion, she bunched her jacket into a pillow and, curling sideways, fell asleep to the comforting thrum of the ferry engines.

  She slept until dawn when she woke to the awareness that the ship was pitching badly. Supporting herself with one hand on a chair, she lurched to the door and pulled it open. A scream of wind filled the companionway as the ferry ploughed through a wave. Gripping the handrail, she got herself down the metal stairs to the day lounge and slumped into a seat beside a window. The world outside was blank, wiped out by thick swirling snow and ice crystals splayed against the glass. The ship was bucking up and down like a crazed sea stallion. Moranna had been on the ferry in stormy weather but never in weather as ugly as this. Over the shrieking wind, she listened for the reassuring thrum of the engine. Instead she heard thwump, thwump, thwump against the keel. The thwumping was followed by a loud knock as something large hit the side. There was a grinding noise and the engines shuddered to a stop. The cabin lights flickered, went out, came on again. “The captain’s turned off her engines,” said a gruff voice one seat over. “He’s decided to wait her out.” The voice belonged to an older man with ruddy cheeks and grizzled hair who looked like he might have once been a sea captain himself. “With that nor’easter blowing, we won’t be going anywheres soon. It’s a wicked storm we’re having.” When Moranna didn’t respond, he asked, “Where you heading, Miss?” Like Bun Clevet, he had seen through her disguise. Not that it mattered any more. She didn’t feel like talking, but liking the old man for calling her Miss, she told him she was going to Baddeck.

  “That where you’re from?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited for her to say more and, when she didn’t, offered the fact that he was headed for Port Hood. “But I’m not from there.”

  Moranna didn’t ask where he was from and the two of them lapsed into glum silence.

  The loudspeaker crackled and a voice came on. “This is Captain Peters speaking. As you can see, we’re in the middle of a blizzard and although we’re no more than an hour from North Sydney, I’ve decided to wait it out here until we can make a safe docking. No point taking chances when we’re better off staying put. According to the forecast, it will be a day or two before the storm blows itself out so you should settle yourselves in for a wait. To cause you the least inconvenience, Marine Atlantic will be picking up the tab for passengers’ meals.”

  “I should think so,” huffed a woman. She was sitting on the far side of the lounge but spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “This is a major inconvenience.”

  The baby across the aisle from Moranna, wakened perhaps by the braying voice, was hushed by its mother. Beside her was the father with a little boy on his knee. The father was wearing workboots and torn jeans, the mother a long cotton skirt and shawl. Moranna thought they looked too young to have children until she reminded herself that she had once been a young mother herself—at forty-five she already thought of herself as old. There was another family with four older children sitting close by, and scattered on the lounge seats between the aisles, thirty or so men who, judging from their work clothes, were on their way to or from jobs.

  The captain went on to reassure passengers that they were perfectly safe, that they were in no danger of anything except running out of food. Soon after he turned off the loudspeaker, the cafeteria doors opened and Moranna hustled in and ordered scrambled eggs and toast. Ravenous, she ate four pieces dripping with honey, not even noticing that the older man, whose name was Ed Kearley, had followed her to the same table. By now more light was coming through the windows, although snow still blanked out the world beyond the glass. When she finished eating, Ed asked if she’d like to play cards. Surprised to see him sitting nearby, she told him she’d play if he would teach her how—in the MacKenzie house card playing had been discouraged in favour of reading and listening to music.

  They had played three rounds of hearts when Reggie Smythe, a salesman from Sydney, joined them for five more rounds. While they played, the men prodded Moranna to tell them why she was on the ferry. Ed had already confided that he was a widower and lived in Lewisport but often visited his daughter and her youngsters in Port Hood, and Reggie, having explained that he wasn’t travelling on business but was on his way back from burying his mother in Stephenville, was expecting something from Moranna in exchange. He looked at her appraisingly, his gaze sliding over her ringless fingers and mannish clothes. Even with the scraggly hair poking out from beneath her hat, anyone could see that she was easy on the eyes, so what in God’s name was she doing alone on the ferry at this time of year, looking like she’d crawled out from beneath a rock? Moranna wouldn’t say. There was a time when she would have babbled on about Duncan abandoning her and taking their daughters partway around the world, leaving her in permanent mourning. She would have gone on about the weight of sorrow she carried for her lost children, how much she had suffered in their absence. She no longer babbled. She had lost the compulsion to talk about the enormous burden of being herself, and had achieved a hard-won perspective on her life by acknowledging the fact that there were millions in the world with burdens far heavier than her own. She had also discovered that she felt stronger when she kept sorrow to herself.

  But she still had the impulse to shock and impress and, having banished the idea of joining the navy, was tempted to tell her card partners she was dressed as a man to disguise the fact that she was a movie star who had recently made a film in Halifax. She lived in the Big Apple but instead of returning to New York had taken the ferry because she wanted to see Newfoundland, which she had been told was a world unto itself, one of the few unspoilt places remaining on Earth—as an actor she was always on the lookout for new experiences that would enrich her work. Moranna could easily have played the part but at the moment lacked the will and the energy to take it on. Also, she was bored with her companions and with the game of hearts and left the table abruptly, leaving Reggie to mutter that she was “one strange broad.”

  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was playing in the bar and she sat down to watch. When the movie was over, she went to the cafeteria for lunch and ate alone before wandering around the ship. She was putting in the time—in her haste to leave Baddeck she had forgotten to bring a book and had nothing to read. She went upstairs and, rather than enter the sleeping lounge, drifted farther along the companionway. Knowing the layout of the ship from having been aboard so many times, she was well aware that she was headed for the galley where Bun Clevet worked.

  When she reached it, she looked through the doorway and spotted him sitting on a stool in a white cook’s hat and apron, peeling potatoes. Catching sight of her at once, he gave her a crooked grin.

  “I see you decided against joining the navy,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “I was going to come looking for you once I finished the spuds.”

  “How did you know I was on the ferry?”

  “Well, there aren’t many women on the passenger list travelling alone and I figured you might be M. MacKenzie.”

  “You’re smarter than I thought.”

  “I guess you think you’re the only smart one.”

  He threw a potato into the pail and stood up.r />
  Now that he was without his parka, the sagging shoulder was even more pronounced. She noticed a tattoo on his left arm.

  “Did you get that in the navy?” For some reason—it may well have been Popeye—Moranna had the idea that only sailors wore tattoos.

  “I’ve never been in the navy.”

  The tattoo was nothing more than a round, black shape and she asked what it was supposed to represent.

  “A hockey puck. I used to play.” He pointed to the chipped front tooth. “That’s how I got this got this.” He put on his parka. “Are going to join me for a smoke?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “You can join me anyway.” He was offhand, as if it didn’t matter to him whether or not she did.

  Moranna followed him down the companionway for the simple reason that she had nothing better to do. She was also drawn to his unflappable good nature and bantering humour. Because of the storm they stayed inside, standing in the entryway near the door, kidding one another, giving away saucy bits and pieces of themselves. Bun didn’t seem to expect her to tell him much about herself and he didn’t offer much either. Instead he recounted the last time he’d been on a ferry stuck in ice. “Three days it was,” he said, stamping his feet. It was cold near the door.

  Moranna told him she had been on the ferry perhaps a dozen times, but she didn’t provide him with the circumstances. She didn’t tell him that after she left the asylum, convinced she was being followed, she used to ride the ferries between Cape Breton and Newfoundland, or that she had spent nights on deck, fighting the urge to leap overboard.

  Later that afternoon Captain Peters, who had been providing passengers with intermittent, jovial messages over the loudspeaker throughout the day, announced that the storm was abating but not soon enough for the ferry to dock safely until morning. He advised those passengers without cabin accommodation to go to the purser’s office where they would be issued a cabin for the night. There were only sixty-three passengers aboard, which explained why Moranna was given the use of a cabin with four bunks, a window and a bathroom. After supper she took a shower and, knowing she was being well looked after, fell into a deep embracing sleep. She woke in the morning to an unearthly stillness and, looking through the porthole fringed with snow, saw that a vast icefield surrounded the ship.