OUT OF THE DARKNESS CHAPTER 6
Chapter 6
Before departure
Marion had come to Canada in 1911 and, now in 1919, found herself collecting and packing a few more items she had missed, sitting on the dresser—a pair of earrings George had given her for Christmas, a framed photo of her, Annabelle, and George taken when Annabelle was fifteen. How quickly those years had passed, she thought, and felt a tug at her heart as she placed them in the steamer trunk, then closed the lid.
She was torn, torn between the love of her homeland and this town where she had found such peace away from all the scandal she had lived with before she came to Canada. Back in Galway, she had been judged and condemned by those she had known for most of her life. Those whom she had considered close friends and colleagues had turned their backs on her.
She had always been what her parents called the quiet, studious one, always with her head in a book. She had no desire, like her sister Elizabeth, to venture beyond Dublin or to dream of finding her Prince Charming, settling down, and raising a family. No, her passion was to study and lose herself in the works of the great artists, poets and writers.
Her older brother, Shaun, became an engineer, married a girl from England, moved there, and became a partner in his father-in-law's business.
She had watched both her brother and sister move far away, while she remained living at home with her parents, while wagging tongues declared her a spinster, too old for any man to want. But that didn’t deter her. With her academic excellence, she was able to obtain a scholarship to the University of Galway and, for the first time in her life, moved away from her parents' home in Dublin. During the first five years at the university, she earned her doctorate in literature and taught there until she came to Canada.
In the years that followed, she suffered the loss of her dear father and, a year later, her precious mother. Since moving to Galway, she had spent her vacations in Dublin visiting with them. How she had loved those visits, but now she had no one. There was no one who loved her, no one who understood her and made her feel special like her parents had, until the day she met Patrick, a professor of political science who had come to teach at the Galway University and filled the emptiness she had lived with for too long.
Years before, her sister, Elizabeth, had found her Prince Charming while visiting their uncle Conrad in Saint John, New Brunswick. They were married less than a year later. She and her parents had attended their wedding. It was the first time they had ever been to Canada. It was the first time they had met George, and the last time her parents would ever see Elizabeth again.
It had been a beautiful wedding, and it appeared that Elizabeth had indeed found everything she had dreamed of. But life, as her mother had once told them, is a journey of roses and thorns, and that had surely been the case with Elizabeth, for within a time frame of fifteen years after her marriage, she would suffer the most unimaginable grief a mother could ever suffer— the loss of her two sons.
It happened on the day Elizabeth’s third child, Annabelle, was born, the long-awaited daughter she and George had prayed for, arrived as her sons perished at sea. She and Elizabeth had kept in touch via letters sent across the sea during those years, with Marion promising each year that she would do her best to arrange a leave of absence to come to Canada and visit, but it never came to pass.
It was on the same day she received a call from George telling her of Elizabeth’s sudden death due to an outbreak of typhoid fever that had killed her and many others, and that the town was in quarantine, that she also received the last letter Elizabeth had written to her, it having taken so long to cross the sea.
In the letter, Elizabeth told Marion how much she missed her and loved her, and prayed that, in the event of her demise, Marion would come to Canada and raise Annabelle. She reminded Marion that she was not only Annabelle’s aunt but also her Godmother, and knowing that Marion would raise Annabelle, would allow her to die in peace. She then said that she and George had discussed it, and that he was in full agreement and would set up a legally binding contract and a compensation package acceptable to her should she agree to come.
Marion, so overcome with grief and guilt, spent the next few days locked up in her house, soul-searching. She had been so selfish. She had indeed taken a leave of absence more than once in those years, but not to visit her sister. She had gone on trips with Patrick and had been seen by a colleague who was also on leave of absence in Ballieconneely, running into them as they exited their hotel room. Soon, the whole university knew of their secret liaison and the scandal that followed nearly destroyed her.
Not only did she lose her friends, but she also lost the respect of her colleagues and lost her dignity and self-respect, all for a man who professed to love her but could not marry her. After much soul-searching, she found the courage to end it with Patrick. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done because she truly loved him. But she finally realized there was no future with him. When she confronted him, he begged her to reconsider, saying he couldn’t live without her.
The next day, she submitted her resignation, effective at the end of her contract. This would give her time to sell her house and tie up all the loose ends before coming to Canada.
Now, on this summer evening, awaiting the arrival of George and preparing for her departure in the morning, she found herself at odds with herself about leaving Annabelle and this lovely town, for she had enjoyed her years here and truly loved Annabelle. But she had fulfilled her contract as Annabelle’s guardian until age seventeen and was eager to return to her homeland and to Patrick, with whom she had kept in touch the entire time. Besides, it was time for Annabelle to build a life of her own with a man she believed would return and marry Annabelle, whether George liked it or not.
She was the only one who knew about Annabelle’s situation. She herself, having been at one time a young woman, helplessly in love, recognized all the tell-tale symptoms of a girl in love: The quiet demeanour, the loss of appetite, the loss of concentration, the daydreaming, the anxiousness as night approached, the constant checking of the time.
Her suspicions were confirmed one night when she heard the soft closing of the front door after she had gone to bed. She had watched Annabelle from her bedroom window tiptoe down the steps from the veranda and scurry out to the road, quietly latching the gate behind her, then turning onto Jack’s road.
She watched until Annabelle was out of sight, and knew where she was going and what she was up to. Why wouldn’t she bring this man home to meet her? She wondered. She wouldn’t set off any alarm bells; she'd confront Annebelle the next day and ask her if she was seeing someone, and ask her to bring him home for dinner.
Did he really love her, or was she just a fling? She wondered, and prayed Annabelle hadn’t been foolish and gotten herself in the family way.
Her concerns were finally put to rest after meeting him. He was, in her estimation, an honourable man who was indeed in love with Annabelle and would marry her. She was convinced of his sincerity. The only problem was—he was a Catholic, and she knew from things George had said over the years, that he hated Catholics.
She also thought George, in time, would come around and agree to the marriage; surely, he would not allow these small-minded townfolk to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to Annabelle.
Besides, she had agreed to give Patrick another chance. His wife had passed away three years earlier, and he was now a free man. If it worked out, that would be wonderful; if not, with the money she had squirrelled away and wisely invested over the years, the monthly payments she received per her contractual agreement with George would allow her to live comfortably on her own.
The fact that Patrick had been an old flame with whom she had an affair for years, a married man — a Catholic whose religion did not believe in divorce, and the reason why he didn’t leave his wife— the reason he couldn’t marry her then didn’t matter anymore. She had finally learned that life was too short to die with regret.
Thank God, George didn’t know these facts, she thought.
It was getting late, and still George had not arrived. Where was he? she wondered. Perhaps he and some of the crew had stopped into the tavern for a few pints as they sometimes did after returning to shore. She thought.
In the kitchen, Annabelle rocked back and forth, in a state of fear and disbelief, finally realizing the gravity of her situation. She and Marion had taken the train to Halifax the day before, staying overnight and returning the next day. All this was to avoid seeing the local doctor, who ran his practice from his house. It was well known that his wife spent her days on the other side of the examining room, with a glass pressed against the wall, listening to every word said between the doctor and the patient, and felt it was her God-given right to put the word out. As it turned out, it was a good thing that Marion had made an appointment with the doctor in Halifax, who confirmed Marion's suspicions — Annabelle was indeed pregnant.
With the repairs to the Castalia completed and Conon having to honour his contract with the Merchant Company, he had returned to duty. He had left on May 8th, her birthday, not knowing she was pregnant and would return in September when his contract expired. He would confront her father then. A shiver ran down her spine with that thought.
How, she wondered, was it possible to be filled with joy and fear at the same time—thrilled for Conon and herself and terrified of her father’s wrath. But, somehow, she understood his wrath, knowing everything he had already endured in life with the loss of his sons and his wife, and the injustices he had experienced at the hands of what he perceived to be his enemies, had brought him to the brink of what a man could endure, and she knew this situation would surely push him over the edge.
“Come on, Annabelle, we can’t hold dinner any longer, let's eat,” Marion said.
Marion ate with the appetite of someone who had not eaten in days, while Annabelle pushed her food around on her plate, deep in thought. The woman who had been like a mother to her for eight years was leaving. Conon was gone. Her father had, for the most part of her life, been in and out of her life like a revolving door. His love for her bounced back and forth like a ping-pong ball. She had tried her entire life to make him love her unconditionally, as her mother had, and there were times she was convinced he did, but then something she did would make him pull away, and he would become distant — unreachable. Why could he not love her as she loved him? She knew she was different—had never been able to fit into the mould of normality—but he was her father. Why could he not accept her for who she was?
All these self-loathing thoughts were going through her mind as she rocked back and forth, recalling the events in her life that had brought her to this moment in time, sitting in a rocking chair in the kitchen, as the woman who had been like a mother to her for eight years was about to leave her, just like everyone she loved had. Would Conon come back to her as promised, or would he, too, abandon her?
“Annabelle, you should eat something. You now have a child to consider. Surely you want him or her to be healthy, don’t you?” Marion asked.
Annabelle didn’t reply. She simply got up and went to bed.
At 11 pm, Marion turned out the lights, leaving only the porch light on.
George, knowing he couldn’t show any signs of the rage that burned just beneath his skin, knowing he had to pull the wool over their eyes, put on what he considered an act that could have won him a theatrical award.
It was just past midnight, while pretending to be a few sheets to the wind, that he staggered up the walkway and tripped up the stairs to the veranda, all the while slurring and singing out of tune, she’ll be comin' round the mountain when she comes. Then he fumbled with the door handle and fell into the entrance.
“Anyone home?” he hollered. “If yrrrr sleeeeeeepin, don’t bother getin up, I’ll seya in the marnin”.
“Good night, George,” Marion replied as George stumbled, then crawled up the stairs.
Yes! she thought to herself, a few crews, and a few brews too many.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7
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