Richardâs life back in Little Bay seemed so far away now. Now Richard wondered: Was his father cruel? Was he mad? Was he human? Was he possessed by a demon or something? Did he know it hurt like hell to have your head beaten in?
Richard looked at Steveâs uneven lips, sternly pressed together. He took in the sunken eyes, the long, thin hands, and the tightness of his fatherâs body as he imagined it through the oilskins. He saw the baldness of the older manâs head, the remaining hairs turned grey and white, and the crevices that were worn deep into his narrow face. The boy realized that he could not recall ever seeing his father smile. He watched the frantic way Steve rowed. It was the same frantic way he did everything. His intensity never wavered, onshore and at sea. He was not yet forty.
How old did Steve say he was when his own father first took him out here? Fourteen? No, younger maybe? Did his father box his ears, too? Did anyone say, âDonât be so hard on him, heâs just a boyâ? Richard saw the constant fear of starvation in his fatherâs eyes. No, he didnât think they did say those things.
Richard didnât feel anger or hatred towards his father. He felt only fatigue. And a hardness in his chest that had not been there before.
Around them were low grey clouds and choppy dark waves. They were in the middle of a mizzling rain, marked by drizzle and a thick mist that seeped into the bones. There were no blackbacks or hagdowns sailing through the air. They could see no other dory. The water made the only sound, and it sounded angry.
Richard pushed his teenaged body into his large wooden oar and helped haul the dory back to the schooner.
Chapter Twelve
F inally, Captain Brinton decreed that it was time to return to port. When Matty told him this, Richard was so relieved he let out air that he did not know he had been holding in. He hated it here in the middle of the cold ocean, the middle of nowhere, a godawful place where they did nothing but suffer from back-breaking work and bone-deep fatigue. He was sick of all of it: the hardtack, the salt beef that was parcelled out to them, the fish soup that they gulped down every evening. He had never experienced life as so fruitless and gloomy. He felt like a bear in the woods that does nothing but search for food. There was no joy, no happiness, never any laughter. Out here, there was only the trepidation he felt in the presence of his father and the Captain, worry about how many fish they were catching, and fear of the weather that could turn at any moment and take their lives.
Richard tried to take pride in his work â he knew thatâs what his mother would tell him to do â but somehow he couldnât always do this. There was too much fatigue in his heart and in his young body. Sometimes, although he would never tell his mother, there was even hatred, for the water, for his father, for the Captain and the damned Banks fishery.
He thought of these things as the Laura Claire headed around Chapeau Rouge. âRed hat,â he remembered Steve said it was called in French. He thought of the ladies on the streets of Burin, the ladies with the fancy hats with feathers coming out the top. Then he thought of his own mother and her big strong hands. She will never wear a fancy hat , he thought.
He knew, too, that he wouldnât be able to buy nice dresses from a store for his sisters. It had gradually dawned on him as the men talked and tried to joke about it that heâd never see money this trip. Nor any other trip this year. Maybe never. Instead, all his slaving might help erase a little of his fatherâs debt, built up through two and a half decades in the Banks fishery. Thatâs all his hard work would do, all it could do. Itâd mean theyâd have tea, some flour, and a bit of sugar, thatâs all. Itâd keep them alive, but not prosperous, nor enjoying the rewards of their labour.
He
Richard looked at Steveâs uneven lips, sternly pressed together. He took in the sunken eyes, the long, thin hands, and the tightness of his fatherâs body as he imagined it through the oilskins. He saw the baldness of the older manâs head, the remaining hairs turned grey and white, and the crevices that were worn deep into his narrow face. The boy realized that he could not recall ever seeing his father smile. He watched the frantic way Steve rowed. It was the same frantic way he did everything. His intensity never wavered, onshore and at sea. He was not yet forty.
How old did Steve say he was when his own father first took him out here? Fourteen? No, younger maybe? Did his father box his ears, too? Did anyone say, âDonât be so hard on him, heâs just a boyâ? Richard saw the constant fear of starvation in his fatherâs eyes. No, he didnât think they did say those things.
Richard didnât feel anger or hatred towards his father. He felt only fatigue. And a hardness in his chest that had not been there before.
Around them were low grey clouds and choppy dark waves. They were in the middle of a mizzling rain, marked by drizzle and a thick mist that seeped into the bones. There were no blackbacks or hagdowns sailing through the air. They could see no other dory. The water made the only sound, and it sounded angry.
Richard pushed his teenaged body into his large wooden oar and helped haul the dory back to the schooner.
Chapter Twelve
F inally, Captain Brinton decreed that it was time to return to port. When Matty told him this, Richard was so relieved he let out air that he did not know he had been holding in. He hated it here in the middle of the cold ocean, the middle of nowhere, a godawful place where they did nothing but suffer from back-breaking work and bone-deep fatigue. He was sick of all of it: the hardtack, the salt beef that was parcelled out to them, the fish soup that they gulped down every evening. He had never experienced life as so fruitless and gloomy. He felt like a bear in the woods that does nothing but search for food. There was no joy, no happiness, never any laughter. Out here, there was only the trepidation he felt in the presence of his father and the Captain, worry about how many fish they were catching, and fear of the weather that could turn at any moment and take their lives.
Richard tried to take pride in his work â he knew thatâs what his mother would tell him to do â but somehow he couldnât always do this. There was too much fatigue in his heart and in his young body. Sometimes, although he would never tell his mother, there was even hatred, for the water, for his father, for the Captain and the damned Banks fishery.
He thought of these things as the Laura Claire headed around Chapeau Rouge. âRed hat,â he remembered Steve said it was called in French. He thought of the ladies on the streets of Burin, the ladies with the fancy hats with feathers coming out the top. Then he thought of his own mother and her big strong hands. She will never wear a fancy hat , he thought.
He knew, too, that he wouldnât be able to buy nice dresses from a store for his sisters. It had gradually dawned on him as the men talked and tried to joke about it that heâd never see money this trip. Nor any other trip this year. Maybe never. Instead, all his slaving might help erase a little of his fatherâs debt, built up through two and a half decades in the Banks fishery. Thatâs all his hard work would do, all it could do. Itâd mean theyâd have tea, some flour, and a bit of sugar, thatâs all. Itâd keep them alive, but not prosperous, nor enjoying the rewards of their labour.
He
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