OUT OF THE DARKNESS CHAPTER 7
Chapter 7
The next morning
George hadn’t been able to sleep for most of the night and found himself wide awake at 6 a.m. He didn’t want to hang around the house; he wanted to get on the road. He wanted to get it all over with. Get Marion back in Ireland to avoid any confrontation with her, and get Annabelle settled across the border. The sooner the better.
He had originally planned to take the train to Saint John, but he wasn’t certain he could make the proper connection to get Annabelle to a place for wayward girls across the border by that means. He certainly couldn’t make any phone calls from the house to check. Before he arrived at the house, he had arranged to have some minor repairs done to the schooner, so that means of transportation was out of the question. They would have to drive to Saint John. That way, he could make calls and set things up from there. Yes! He thought. That would work.
He would make them a real special breakfast and suggest they go by car, saying it would be more fun, as they had travelled by train and schooner many times, but had never travelled beyond Spring Hill by car, especially in the new Buick roadster.
It had been a while since he had made breakfast. The last time was on Elizabeth’s birthday the year before she died. And she had said it was the best breakfast she had ever eaten. Yes! He was, as he hated to admit, an inherently good cook thanks to his mother.
Marion awoke to the gleeful trill of George whistling and the aroma of bacon and eggs.
God, she thought. I was sure he’d be hungover.
“Come on, girls, time to get up,” he hollered.
He managed to keep the charade going throughout breakfast by telling tall tales about events that happened at the local tavern the night before—all of which were fabricated. By the time they washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, they were still laughing at the antics of the drunken patrons he had described.
“Hey Marion, what ya say we leave now?”
“That way, we’ll have time to have some fun in Saint John before you have to board,
Soon, they were on the road. There wasn’t much to look at on the way—endless miles of farmland that gave way to miles of evergreens, where civilization ended. With each passing mile, the earlier gleeful mood gradually changed, falling in line with the earth and sky that day, which lay silent and somber in muted shades, as George, Annabelle, and Marion got lost in their own private thoughts.
Hardly a word was spoken between them until they crossed the Reversing Falls bridge and entered the heart of the city—a hub of bustling activity. It was still early morning, and Marion’s boat wouldn’t leave port until late afternoon, so George suggested they go for lunch at his favourite restaurant.
Saint John was best known for its massive winter port, where Tall Ships from around the world filled the harbour year-round. The Great Atlantic was an ocean of salt water that never froze, making year-round travel by sea possible. It was the basis on which the city had grown so large and prosperous, providing a good living for its inhabitants and the captains of the Tall Ships, including George, his father, and their fathers before them.
George was very familiar with this city because of his connection to the port where he delivered lumber and coal from Nova Scotia before continuing to deliver more cargo along the eastern seaboard. In the winter months, he would continue to the Indies, where he would pick up molasses, sugar, spices, tea, rum and other cargo to bring back. This was the city where he had first set eyes on his dear, sweet Elizabeth— the love of his life.
He had lain awake the previous night— his mind in utter torment, trying to decide the best way to handle the horrifying situation that Annabelle had brought upon them, and concluded there were two alternatives: She could go away to a house for wayward girls for the duration of her pregnancy and give the child up for adoption, or be banished from his life forever. That thought crushed him.
How could she possibly think he would allow her to raise a bastard child spawned by a no-good-for-nothing catholic to live in his home and remind him every day of the shame she had brought to them? Could she not see how that child would suffer the rest of its life being labelled a bastard child spawned by a bad seed— spend the rest of its life paying for its mother’s sin? Hadn’t there been enough suffering in this family already? Surely, she would come to her senses and realize the best thing she could do for that child was to let it go.
He had planned it all out while they were on the road. He had a bank account in Saint John set up to handle his business transactions. There wasn’t a great deal of disposable cash in the account, beyond what was needed to conduct his business, as most of his monetary worth was tied up in property— his schooner, his land, and his home. Still, there was more than enough to cover Annabelle's keep through her pregnancy and perhaps beyond.
In the event she decided to keep the baby, he would give her that money to use as she saw fit. She could start a new life, free from her tormented past— proclaim herself a widow and protect her child from suffering the rest of its life. When the money ran out, she would have to find a way to fend for herself and her child. It would not be easy, but the choice was hers.
After they saw Marion off, he would suggest to Annabelle that they make this a vacation and stay overnight in Saint John, and do some shopping the next day. That way, he could call ahead to find a home for wayward girls with an opening available in the closest New England State across the border— far enough away that word of Annabelle's sin would never get back to anyone who knew them. Then he would withdraw the necessary funds from the bank, saying it was for shopping and some sightseeing, and they could then cross the border to do more shopping.
The Admiral Beatty Hotel was a grand hotel with an excellent dining room that he had frequented many times over the years, and where he was taking them for lunch when, suddenly, he ran into Aunt Gertrude, outside the city market.
He had not planned on that happening and had to think quickly to cover his tracks. He knew she would insist that they join her and Conrad for dinner, but he didn’t want to, afraid Annabelle might divulge her condition to Aunt Gertrude in private while in the kitchen helping her clean up after dinner, as she always did.
As a child, Annabelle always loved the occasional visits she made with her father to Saint John, and especially her visit to her Great Aunt and Uncle’s mansion on the hill. Aunt Gertrude had a way of prying everything that was none of her business from anyone who dared join her alone in the kitchen, as George knew all too well.
No, they would not join her for dinner under any circumstances. If that happened, it wouldn’t be long before everyone in Saint John knew of Annabelle’s condition, and then it wouldn’t be long before that news made it back to the townfolk, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. No, no one but he and Marion would ever know.
“George, George, what a surprise,” Gertrude had said, grabbing him and kissing him on the cheek as she always did. He had to think fast.
“Yes indeed, but we haven’t got time to talk right now. We are late. Marion’s boat is leaving shortly— she’s returning to Ireland. I will fill you in later, Aunt Gertrude,” he replied.
“Come on, girls, we have to hurry,” he cried, grabbing Annabelle by the hand and moving as fast as he could.
Annabelle and Marion, in such a state of confusion, not knowing what he was doing, turned and waved goodbye to Gertrude, who stood there with her mouth hanging open, as they scurried away.
“Papa, Papa, why are we leaving? We still have lots of time. Why can’t we have lunch with Aunt Gertrude?” Annabelle cried as George encircled her wrist with his large hand and pulled her along, her feet struggling to keep up with him.
“What’s going on, George?” Marion demanded.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” George commanded. “I’ll tell you once we get to the foot of King.
It was a steep descent downhill from the City Market to the foot of King and the docks. Annabelle nearly fell, but George managed to keep her on her feet by slowing down as they made their way through the window shoppers blocking their path.
He had to think of a way to explain their hasty departure. His mind was spinning. He had to come up with something believable quickly, or they would begin to get suspicious. There was an outside café on the dock that served fish and chips.
“Hey girls, how about having lunch here? They have the best fish and chips you’ll ever eat,” he said.
It was a beautiful day in early July, and the air was laden with that tantalizing aroma. Gulls circled overhead, hoping to dine on any dropped or discarded pieces.
After they had seated themselves, Marion again asked what his hurry was and why they had left Aunt Gertrude there with her mouth hanging open.
“Let's eat lunch first, and then I will tell you,” George said.
He ate very slowly, making small talk while he tried to cook up a story that would satisfy them. Try as he might, nothing came to mind. It was only by sheer luck that he was able to skirt the issue when, suddenly, a catastrophe occurred.
The cargo, which a crane had been lifting into the hull of a barquentine schooner, broke loose from its binding and crashed onto its deck. The impact was so severe that the barquentine dipped and swayed, smashing into an adjacent schooner—a Clipper, causing a pot of hot tar used for last-minute repairs to fall over and spill onto its deck.
Apparently, oily rags used to remove the excess tar from repairs had been left sitting on the deck and were set ablaze by some wind-blown sparks from somewhere. Within minutes, the deck and sails of the Clipper were on fire, and all hell broke loose. Captains and crew from all the other schooners docked in the harbour ran to the rescue, including George.
“Sorry, girls, I have to go; my help is needed,” George hollered as he ran at breakneck speed to the ongoing mayhem that had overtaken the right side of the harbour front.
It was hours before all was brought under control. The odour of smoke and hot tar still filled the air, but the fire had been put out. The two vessels had sustained substantial damage and would have to postpone their journeys until repairs were complete, but it could have been much worse if not for the aid of all the hands that came to the rescue.
George returned covered in ashes and soot just in time to get Marion and all her luggage aboard the passenger ship before departure.
“Come on, we have to hurry,” he said anxiously, knowing all inquiries about Aunt Gertrude for the time being were forgotten.
It was a tearful farewell between the two women, both vowing to write to each other. Annabelle handed Marion a parting gift—a poem she had written for her. Marion took off her earrings and gave them to Annabelle.
“Think of me every time you wear them, my dear, sweet Annabelle”. We’ll keep in touch, I will write to you, and you write to me.
George wished her all the best in the future and promised to visit her with Annabelle once he was retired.
“I will count the days,” Marion promised, and with that, she scaled the gangplank and dipped out of sight.
Annabelle felt so lost. It was the first time in eight years that she had been without Marion, and her heart ached as they watched the big ship pull out of the harbour.
“Hey Annabelle,” George said. “What say we take in a movie and stay the night here. Let's make this a mini vacation. Tomorrow we can do some shopping in the city and then do some sightseeing and shopping across the border. We can get some great deals there.
George was awash with guilt in that moment, knowing that what he was planning would, one way or the other, change Annabelle’s life forever. But there was no turning back. He would do what he had to do.
George couldn’t concentrate on the movie. His mind kept recalling all the times he, Elizabeth, and Annabelle had gone to movies in their hometown—all the wonderful day trips in the schooner between shipping contracts—their trips to Halifax, Cape Breton Island, Prince Edward Island, and Newfoundland. He could see it all vividly— more so than the movie playing in real time— Annabelle, with her silvery grey eyes glistening in the sunlight and her long, beautiful, dark hair blowing in the wind, looking out at the sea and writing poems — such beautiful poems— Elizabeth singing Irish songs she had learned as a child from her mother. Oh, how he loved them. They were his world. Tears ran down his cheeks and fell into his popcorn. How could he possibly banish her? Somehow, he would find a way to convince her to spend the duration of her pregnancy at the home for wayward girls. He would tell the townfolk that she was in Ireland with Marion, taking a study course at the University of Ireland or something like that. He would figure something out. Yes! He was sure he could convince her to do the right thing.
After the movie had ended, they returned to the Admiral Beatty Hotel and booked a room for the night. It had been an eventful day, and they were both tired. They both tossed and turned all night long.
In the morning, they had breakfast in the dining room and then headed out. Annabelle was sorry they had not been able to spend some time with Great Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Conrad, and wondered why her father had obviously avoided them. She didn’t dare ask, thinking he was trying to hide something from her and didn’t want to anger him.
First, they stopped at the bank. Her father said he needed to get money for the shopping spree and the trip across the border. He then took her to her favourite department store, “MRA’S, a corporate company formed by three wealthy, well-known families in this city, Manchester, Robinson and Allison.
He told her to pick out some new summer clothes. She picked out a few things, not wanting to look greedy, but he insisted she choose more. He had her try on several dresses and sweaters and made a big fuss about how wonderful they looked on her. Then he took her to the shoe department and bought her three new pairs, including a pair of comfortable walking shoes. By the time they left the store, they were both loaded down with shopping bags.
She was so excited. It had been so long since they had spent time like this together. It was the first time since her mother had died that he had shown her this kind of affection. She loved him so much and had yearned for this for so long.
Her euphoria was interrupted for a moment when she saw a woman with a baby carriage approaching, reminding her of her condition, of having to tell him, and of how it would crush him.
“How could it be possible,” she asked herself. How could she feel all these emotions at the same time—love for her father, fear of her father, love for Conon, love for her unborn child, excitement about her future and fear of her future.”
Her life, she realized, had always been one of such deep, mixed emotions. Her life, she concluded, was a journey of roses and thorns. She had heard somewhere that the thorns were to protect the rose, hidden there waiting for some unsuspecting soul who wanted to steal its beauty by plucking it from its life source, only to be pricked by those sharp green thorns, protecting her and causing the unsuspecting soul to bleed.
But Annabelle saw the rose and the thorn in a different way. She saw the thorns lying in wait beneath the rose, so envious of its beauty, so sharp and green, waiting for it to let its guard down, wanting to impale it. So, the rose, in order to bloom, she surmised, spent its life endlessly trying to hold itself above those thorns of bitterness.
She had, at one point, when she was drowning in sorrow after her mother's death, written a poem about a rose— a metaphor representing her mother who had suffered the same cruelty she had, inflicted by the holier-than-thou townfolk for having given birth to a bad seed—
The Rose
She holds herself above those thorns of bitterness
So sharp and green with envy of her loveliness
As she trembles in the chill of winter's breath
That stills the beating of her scarlet breast
As her petals fall upon the snowy mantle white
As beautiful in death as she was, the Rose, in life.
The woman with the baby carriage smiled at them as she passed by. So many thoughts were running through Annabelle’s mind. Confusion and turmoil seemed to be the order of the day. How she wished she could stop her mind from thinking. Would she ever know what peace felt like? How she longed for a normal life, a life she hoped to find with Conon.
So lost in thought was she that at the crosswalk, she didn’t stop to check for traffic; no, she stepped out from the curb into oncoming traffic, amid: The squealing of tires on pavement. A car at full speed trying to stop. The smell of burning rubber. The driver's hostile voice. Her heart pounding like a drum. Her father running out and bringing her back to the curb. His shopping bags lying on the curb. Hers on the road. A good Samaritan taking them back to the curb. Her father’s words muffled, like the sound you hear underwater. Her heartbeat out of sync. Her body unable to move. Being led to a bench. Her father beside her, his words gradually making sense as she slowly returned to reality.
“My God, Annabelle, are you trying to kill yourself?” “You scared the living crap out of me.”
“Sorry, Papa, I don’t know what came over me, but I am okay now.”
“Don’t move, stay here, I’ll go bring the car around, it’s just a block away. Keep your eyes on the shopping bags.”
Within minutes, George returned, piled the shopping bags on the back seat, helped Annabelle into the passenger seat, and away they went, headed for Bangor, Maine.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8
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