The Place Read online

  Without taking the time to relight the lamp, I scrambled up the dark stairs on my hands and knees to the room across from my own, which had a window facing the harbour. Drawing the curtain back as slowly as if I was about to view something forbidden, I peered out. I saw nothing at first.

  Then an ominous shadow emerged from a small dip in the trail and rose ghost-like to the cliff above the harbour and Jake’s wharf. For a full moment the form of a man with his back to me stood there as if surveying the dark scene below him. He was bold against the pale of the night harbour. I gasped. Though it had been more than sixteen years, I recognized the man who had haunted my nights, clouded all of my dreams, and ruined my life. Redjack had returned!

  His shadow disappeared below the lip of the hill. My stomach clenched in abject fear. In darkness I staggered from the room, crossed the hall to my own room, dropped like a stone before the bed, fumbled for the heavy porcelain chamber pot under it, and threw my guts up.

  Sometime after, with the smell of my vomit filling the room, I found the nerve to clamber back over the stairs to the kitchen door. There was no lock on the door. There wasn’t a lock on anyone’s door in the Place. The water gully next to the door was half filled with water, and with strength I never knew I had, I hauled, wrenched, and half rolled the heavy barrel against the door. I was still afraid to relight the lamp, fearing Redjack would see the light and know I was still up. Clawing my way upstairs again to the room across the hall, I sat by the window and stared out. Tears filled my eyes.

  My head was spinning. Why had Redjack come back after all these years? To rape me again? It couldn’t be, else he wouldn’t have knocked on my door. Besides, even he wouldn’t dare do such a thing. For though I had kept my rape a secret, the men in the place would not abide a blatant attack on a woman. It wasn’t that. He was here for another reason. One that involved me, of that I was certain.

  Before that bitter night was done, I came to the realization as to why I couldn’t share my love with my son—and now my grandson. It wasn’t because I couldn’t love them at all. It was the colour of their hair. It was because that hair colour represented the vile act that had been perpetrated on my body. It had nothing at all to do with the innocents who wore it. With my hatred I had forced the sin of the father upon the son. Along with that discovery, a feeling of love for my son and his son swept over me, and I cried all the more, for the long waste of it. I cried because now it was too late to make amends to my son, who had not come back from the war. And I wept harder because I didn’t have the courage, nor did I know how, to make manifest the love I now felt for his boy, Little Jake.

  There was something more, too. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had always known that Redjack would return. And now he was here in the harbour below my window, and I was terrified.

  I thought of Tobe and how much he had hated Jake. Tobe had guessed it right about Redjack being Jake’s father. I always knew he never believed my lies. Tobe’s hatred for Jake began the night he saw his red hair, the night Jake was born. His hate for me began the same night. And not long after that, my hatred began for both of them.

  And then, sitting beside the upstairs window, standing the dog watch on that black night, with the bane of all my days and nights lurking somewhere in the harbour, understanding and courage beyond measure found me. It was a gift from my son, Jake. It had taken me a lifetime to find it.

  Since the night he was born, Jake was hated. Hated by me, his mother, whose blood he carried, and hated by the man I told him was his father. He was cursed with red hair. Cursed, because Tobe doubted his lineage. Cursed, because I hated the image it represented. Added to that, Jake had a bad speech impediment. Cursed again.

  Because of his stammer he was teased and taunted. His father beat him and cursed him. I showed him no love. I couldn’t remember ever holding him fondly, yet I raised him, fed him, and trained him. The only thing missing was a chain around his neck. I had even tried to have him arrested for the death of the man he called Father. God forgive me!

  And yet, through it all, Jake had not rebelled. Ever since he could walk, he worked in the punt with Tobe. He endured the taunts, the unbearable workload, the filthy lip from his father, and the beatings, all without fighting back. He should have drowned Tobe—no one would blame him. And in the evenings I turned a blind eye to his bruises, put him to bed, not kissed, in a room without lamplight. I shuddered with the memory of how I had treated my boy.

  Jake had overcome it all. Nor did the hatred he experienced in his own life affect the way he treated others. Oh my God, what courage he had! No one had more reason to hate—he had every right to—yet Jake showed animosity toward no one. He was determined and defiant, gentle and strong, faithful and kind, and as he grew, Jake was loved by all. The only ones in the Place who didn’t love him were those who should have loved him most.

  Many in the Place called him the Crackie after the faithful pup that chased after his master. Only Jake didn’t chase his father out of love, but because he feared him. After his father died, Jake, young as he was, became a man. He worked like a slave, kept my table bent and my larder full, and never once complained about anything. All on his own he had gotten a berth to the ice and became a real “crackie” at hunting seals. And now he had gone to war to fight for a country that wasn’t ours and from which he would never return.

  Images of the night I was raped came stealing through my brain. Of how Redjack was forever looking around while he was attacking me. His voice was louder than was necessary or even wise for one committing a crime, as if the sound of it was bolstering him. The brutal way he pinned me, asserting his power over someone who was weaker then he was. Running away in a panic after his dastardly deed was done.

  Redjack was a coward. There was no need for me to be afraid of him anymore, and like all cowards, he would fear confrontation. I was sure of it. Jake had not inherited his father’s cowardice. He had inherited courage, instead. From me, maybe. For too long, hate had kept it hidden, and now the love I was feeling had revealed it. A long-overdue love for my son. And with that freedom came courage I didn’t know I possessed. It was like a conversion. When dawn brought the new day, I would confront Redjack.

  34

  Skipper Guy was the first to walk down over the hill to the harbour that morning. Day was not yet abroad upon the land, but the promise of it was in the eastern sky. His boat was ever the first one to leave harbour. His crew soon followed him, and behind them, the morning dew upon new grass dampening my dress, went I.

  Men were walking toward their wharves from both sides now, as well as from the bottom of the harbour. The Skipper’s appearance was the clock they all followed. No one noticed me coming down the path. They were too busy staring at the strange punt moored to Jake’s wharf. Wondering whose it was. But I knew.

  It was the same punt Eliza had seen coming up the tickle late last evening. Redjack’s punt was moored to Jake’s wharf. The small brown sail Eliza had seen draped over a low, tent-like frame in the bow of the punt had now been converted into a roof for a makeshift cuddy. The boat was neat-looking, tied securely, and it moved gently with the flood tide that was now causing it to rub up against the stagehead lungers. Several seagulls on Harbour Rock eyed the rising tide swirling around their roost, which would soon be swallowed up. I stood looking at the punt from the long, sloping rock just above and leading down to the wharf. It was the same rock I had sat on all those years ago, when in my blushing innocence I had watched the handsome man with the red hair stare up at me.

  I waited, not at all sure of what was going to happen or what I must do when it did. I was filled with trepidation but not afraid. Well, not really. “I need your strength now, Jake,” I whispered.

  The punt rocked a bit, and its painter chafed. Its port gunnel creaked against the worn lungers as a corner of the sail was thrown back with a slap, and there was Redjack, standing tall above the cuddy and running fingers through
his hair. A low-flying gull that was circling the harbour canted upward when the Culler emerged from the cuddy. Even the birds were startled by his presence. My knees went weak. I was unsure of myself and wanted to sit down.

  “Lend me your strength, Jake,” I whispered again, and fighting the urge to swoon, I waited.

  The Skipper and his crew were rowing out the cove and had just passed the wharf when they saw Redjack. They stopped rowing. The punt slowed, and the men rested on their oars in the early morning light. Redjack spoke first.

  “Marnin’ to ’e, Skipper,” he said calmly.

  “Marnin’, Jack,” the Skipper replied, obviously surprised to see him. No one called the Culler Redjack to his face.

  Skipper Guy stood in the stern with the sculling oar in his hand, which he kept turning, causing the punt to make a little way. He spied me standing on the rock and was almost as surprised as he was when Redjack had shown himself.

  “Marnin’, Becky,” he called to me. I couldn’t find my voice and merely nodded to him.

  Redjack turned my way. “Well, good marnin’ to you, too, Rebecca my love. Didn’t figure you fer an early riser,” he said. His voice was calm and jovial, as if he were talking to an old acquaintance.

  “You son of a bitch! Why are you here?” I hissed like spray flung over a headland in a gale. I had found my voice. I saw the Skipper and the boys look my way. They had never heard me swear before. Nor had I.

  “Well, now, didn’t figure you fer a cussin’ woman, either. And me, out of the plain goodness of me ’eart, come to take care of the mudder of me son, wot’s gone off to war.”

  God in heaven! In one sentence he had revealed to the harbour what I had kept secret all these years. The Place was astir now, with daylight all abroad and ears listening.

  “Scun to!” ordered the Skipper, as if not wanting to hear more. He had a puzzled look on his broad face. My cry to Redjack and his reply to me intimated that we knew each other. Strong arms obeyed the order, oars dug deep, the punt surged forward, and I, who so wanted to beg them stay and not leave me alone with the Culler, felt the courage go out of my legs. I slumped down upon the rock.

  “Ah! The first time I seen ya was upon that same rock. And now you’ve come to see me again. Still a looker, you are, Rebecca my love.”

  Redjack’s voice angered me greatly. The very sound of it was revolting, and the raw feelings surging through me brought back my courage. I stood to my feet. I didn’t have to turn around to know people were watching and listening. The rustle of long dresses and the scuff of boots upon the paths leading to the harbour wharves told me so. I looked out over the harbour. My eyes watered, and I whispered again for Jake’s strength.

  Harbour Rock was all but hidden with new water. The gulls had been ousted from their favourite roost. Then, for the first time in my life, as if I had just turned a page in a book and was seeing a rare picture there, I found my own courage. It was there in the rocks, flushed, laundered, and blessed with endless years of salt brine. The Place where we lived at the sea edge had weathered us, housed us, and fed us. And we were no less magnificent, for we were here by choice, a masterless people who could as easily sail away over the broad sea as bide.

  I knew in that moment the freedom I sought was already mine. I had been too blind to see it. It was as plain as day. The colour of a man’s hair had nothing to do with his conduct or mannerisms. It was the colour of his heart that mattered. Redjack would be as evil to me if he were called Blackjack.

  Thus armed, I walked down over the slope of the rock and stepped upon the wharf lungers. I had not been there in years. The smell of fish and salt, twine and tarry oakum, the taint of our way of life and the sweet cleanse of the new tide, all of these came to me. They bolstered me.

  Now I was at the head of the wharf. “I am not your love!” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, as to that, now, Rebecca my dear, I am sorely disappointed to hear that. For as you and I know full well, I was your first love. There is no denyin’ wot ’appened on No Denial Rock, eh? Ha, ha, ha!”

  Redjack laughed without mirth. He was facing the harbour houses and talking to the small crowd that had gathered, not to me. Why was he shouting? Of course. Redjack was appealing to the onlookers for strength, as if their listening alone would discredit me. Redjack was a coward. Everyone was listening to him, and he relished putting me down in front of everyone in the Place. But I had other ideas.

  I turned to face the crowd, most of whom were women and a few children. All but a few men had gone to sea in their punts. “This man!” I shouted in a sure and steady voice. “The one we all know as Redjack, hated fish culler, raped me! These sixteen years past, almost to this very day! My son, Jake, is his child! But the only part of Redjack my son inherited was his hair colour, for unlike his father, Jake is good, kind, and pure of heart.”

  There! I had bared my soul. I had declared for all in the Place to hear that I had been raped and that Jake was Redjack’s. My God! I felt a wave of relief. Like a great stone of misery had been lifted from my heart. And at that moment I didn’t care about the consequences of my confession. I had bared my shame, and having done so, I was free of it!

  I could hear a collective gasp from the women upon the hill. The men were silent. Redjack was not.

  “’Ere, wot are you saying? You’re the real Jezebel, you are!” He was shouting to the onlookers again. “She come a-saunterin’ to me on No Denial Rock, she did, wit’ ’er pointy tits strainin’ against the buttons, ’er shapely body slitherin’ like a randy goat, and ’er smile invitin’. Beggin’ fer it, she was. I give it to ’er good.

  “And she bloody well loved it! Like a flattie on a prong, she was, when I did it to ’er!” The women on the hill gasped again, louder this time. Redjack had lost all credibility then and didn’t know it, for the women started to turn their backs. “That’s right, turn yer backs to the lyin’ harlot!”

  But they hadn’t all turned their backs. Aunt Jane stood her ground. She shook her small fist, not at me but at Redjack. “Hol’ yer prate! ’Tis not Becky we are turnin’ our backs to but to you, Redjack the Culler.”

  Redjack was stunned to hear his nickname shouted so callously from the cliffs, and by a woman, no less.

  “Yes! I said Redjack! ’Tis the name yer called behind yer back. Well, I’m calling it afore yer face. We will ’ave no more of yer blaggard around ’ere. There are chillern about, man! And the likes of ye shouting blaggard and speakin’ about unmentionables.

  “As fer the boy, Jake, I was the first one on this earth who laid eyes on ’im. Only midwife in the place, I am. Doubted then, I did, if ’twas Toby’s boy er no. Well, now we know from Becky’s own lips ’tis yours. Took guts fer her to say it.

  “As fer the other . . . I say she was true about that, too. I’ll take ’er word over yours.”

  God love her! She had taken some of the wind out of Redjack’s sails. Everyone in the Place was facing the harbour now. Many of them, especially the women, were nodding their heads in agreement with Aunt Jane. When the Culler spoke again, he was still defiant.

  “She’s a lyin’ who—” Redjack looked up at Aunt Jane’s stony face. “She’s a liar. She was willin’,” he said.

  I found my voice again, and though it quivered at first, I addressed the Place and purged my soul. “No, I am not lying. Do you know the terrible shame I have borne all those years? You all know the hate I have borne for my son, my husband, and the blind indifference my hate has wrought upon all of you. My hate was so strong I almost had Jake arrested for Toby’s death. I was so blind with hate I could have sent my own son to the gibbet! My shame has been bared before you all. I was raped . . .” I pointed my arm behind me without turning. “By Redjack.”

  35

  Many of the women were weeping by the time I was finished. And I had such a feeling of redemption that my knees grew weak again. A differe
nt woman now, I turned around to face my rapist once more. Redjack looked like he was about to explode. He was losing the argument, and he knew it. But he was far from done. He had come here for something more than to humiliate me, and now he revealed it.

  “As fer she bein’ willin’ er no, I ”lows ”tis no matter after all them years. Wot does matter is a father’s right to his son’s property, an’ I ’ave come to claim the property of mine.”

  “You must be out of yer head!” I yelled at him. “Everything that was Tobe’s is now mine and Jake’s. Leave this wharf now or I will cut yer painter.” I moved toward the splitting table on the stagehead, where two knives were stuck in the top of the table.

  “Stay yer hand, there, Becky my love,” Redjack shouted back at me.

  “Stop callin’ me your love,” I returned.

  He ducked under the cuddy. The punt lurched from side to side as he did, and he emerged again in the bow of the punt, where he pulled on the painter and hauled the boat tight to the wharf. Now I was looking down at his red hair. The colour of it didn’t bother me now, but the evil in his eye did. I was afraid of him and stepped back so he wouldn’t see it in my face. Redjack climbed up the stagehead lungers and stood on Jake’s wharf, and for the first time in all these years I was face to face with the man who had stolen my youth.

  I forced myself to look at him. His face looked haggard and drawn. His eyes looked bitter more than they did evil. He kept looking around the Place as if expecting to see someone other than me come and confront him. I could see a look of doubt in his eyes.

  “I have hated you all my life!” I said. “God’s pardon! I hated my boy, too, because the colour of his hair reminded me of you. I don’t hate my boy, anymore, too late, I fear. I will beg forgiveness when he returns from the war. But I will hate you for as long as I breathe.” I spoke low and deep and meant every word I said.