The Place Read online

  “Well, well! If it isn’t our Becky. Come to walk to the lookout with us, ’ave ya?”

  I swallowed hard and spoke in what I hoped was a firm voice. “Aye, I have. Sure, ’tis a fair enough evenin’ and a free path.”

  “Aye, ’tis that. And made all the more fair with the prettiest girl in the Place upon it, eh boys?”

  The two younger boys laughed. The girl, thin and close to my age with yellow hair, hung her head. Toby was like that, arrogant and not knowing how words could shame. It would be much later before I came to know he didn’t care how much they could hurt, either. I didn’t know what to do next, but Toby just sauntered to my side and took my hand, and I walked by his side up over the hill. The two boys roamed on ahead. The girl hung behind, and after a while when I looked back to see her, she wasn’t there.

  My hand in Toby’s felt clammy with sweat as we walked up over the hill, but he didn’t notice and we walked on. The shadows deepened and the wind breezed up, bringing scudding clouds. There would be no starshine, no moon, and for once I, who loved the moonlight, was glad it wouldn’t be witness to my attempt at seduction.

  When we reached No Denial Rock, he pulled me to a stop. He let go of my hand and placed his arm around my waist, drawing me to him. There was a confident grin on his face. It went away when I said as softly as I could, “Not here! I’ll not be courted here.”

  If I hadn’t been so desperate, so charged with tension, the look on Toby’s face would have made me laugh.

  “Oh! So you are willin’ fer me to court ya, but No Denial Rock is not good enough fer ya, eh?”

  “I-I don’t like the rock, Toby,” I stammered, trying to make a good excuse of it. The very sight of that rock nauseated me. “’Tis the place where everyone courts. I figured you and me could go somewhere different.” I don’t know where I came up with that, but I reached even closer to him as I spoke, looking up into his eyes. It worked. Toby’s expression changed right away, and as if the idea to go courting somewhere else was his, he said, “By God, yer right! The best-looking girl in the Place courtin’ the best and most ’andsome man in the Place.”

  He said it with such haughtiness I knew he believed it. I tightened my shawl against the rising night wind. Tucking my arms under my breasts to lift them higher, I watched his eyes as he stared. It was then I saw something else in Toby’s eyes. Fear. Toby knew no more about sex than I did—before I was raped. Toby’s boasts around the other boys his age were just that—idle bravado. I decided to press what I was sure was an advantage. With his eyes still on my breasts, and with my arms still beneath them in what I hoped was a seductive pose, I said ever so softly, “Maybe we could stroll down the hill to somewhere in the lun.” And again Toby took the idea as his own.

  “’Tis somewhere out of the wind we should be walkin’, too, Becky me love.”

  “I knew you would take care of a girl’s needs, Toby.” I pursed my lips until they were moist, and I reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. Toby was so startled by my kiss it took him a second to react. Then I was in his arms, crushed to his chest, his mouth was upon mine, and he was backing me toward that damn rock. I twisted easily out of his grasp and murmured in his ear, “Not here.”

  Like a child who has suddenly had his candy taken away, Toby fair drooled for me. I knew I had him now. All I had to do was play the cards right. I had shuffled the deck, offered Toby the cut, and now the play—and I hoped the hand—would be mine.

  Toby held me all the way down the path. He held me so tight around the waist we rubbed against each other as we walked down in fits and starts. He snuck kisses and nuzzled his face into my neck, my breasts, and not only did I let him, I was enjoying it. I didn’t notice we were out of the wind and in the lun of a small building till I found my back pressed against the boards. We were standing under the eaves of Toby’s father’s twine loft. The buttons on my dress, which Redjack had ripped open, I now loosened for Toby, and for the second time in my life I felt the cold night air on my full breasts. Toby appeared to be mesmerized by the sight of them. He just stared, not knowing how to proceed. But because of Redjack, I did.

  I pressed his head down, and with a low moan he lavished my breasts with wet kisses, uncontrollably. More from instinct than design, he fumbled with his hands under my dress. He knew nothing about opening women’s clothing. I grasped his hands, and he stopped his frantic attempt to reach my undergarments. Toby would not rape me. I knew I needn’t fear that. His face had lost all of its haughtiness, and like an expectant child, he awaited my next move.

  “Inside the twine loft,” was all I said.

  The door creaked when I pushed it inward, and I feared we would be heard. But the wind was high, the rote of the sea was loud, and the lamplight spilling from the nearest house didn’t reach the twine loft. Taking him by the hand, I led him into the waiting darkness. The lower room was black. So black it was as if the dark of night was imprisoned there. I knew there were narrow steps leading to the loft above, and I waited for my eyes to adjust. The smells of oakum, used fish salt, and twine filled my nose. I could hear small lops lapping against the loft’s shores beneath my feet. I caught the faint glow of water below the trunk hole in the floor, through which fish offal was dropped. The night wind soughed past the rough walls outside.

  From a small window above, a thin light spilled down the stairs, and with Toby’s hand in mine, I led the way up. The smell of twine and nets was stronger up here. The wind rattled across the low triangled roof. The wan light from the window showed piles of netting and cast deep shadow. We stopped by the window, and I peered out. Coal-oil lamps in a few kitchens speared their lights into the night. From an upstairs window in one house I saw a flicker of light glowing for just a moment. Though it was still early evening, the light had long gone from the sky, and tired fishermen would soon seek their beds. We would not be disturbed.

  Bent as I was at the window exposed my breasts, full and white as risen bread loaves. Toby pulled me into his eager embrace, and still clinging to each other, I led him to the biggest shadow in the loft, a coiled mound of soft netting. I fell gently, as if in a swoon, onto the bed of twine, taking the flabbergasted Toby down on top of me. I didn’t have to fake the quick hurt. Toby was more endowed than Redjack. For one moment the images of my rape upon the rock were overcome by my base feelings, and my loins responded.

  Then Toby stopped his frantic rutting and fell gasping and moaning with his full limp weight upon me. My barely discovered pleasure was extinguished like a hot chimney doused with cold water. It had all taken less than two minutes. I pushed him gently off me, and we both stood up. He fumbled with his trouser buttons as I arranged my clothing.

  Back at the window, he was by my side again with his hand holding mine. “I think I love you, Becky,” he said. I knew then that Toby had laid all his cards on the table. But I had control of the kitty, and the hand was mine.

  I felt only a little remorse when I told him, “Well, it’s good that you do, Toby, because you know what this means, don’t you?” I was buttoning my blouse as he looked on, the light from the window still upon me. They were not the words he had expected after declaring his love.

  “Wot wot means?”

  “This,” I said, motioning to the pile of twine. “This thing that you have done to me. You have defiled me, and now you must marry me!” I was trembling with anticipation. This was the crux of my seduction of Toby. My plans depended upon this moment.

  “Marry you? Well, I—I didn’t. ’Ere, wot do you mean defiled you?”

  “It’s what all men do to women. My mother told me so. You have defiled me, and now you must marry me.” Even in the murky dark I dared not meet his eye, fearing he would detect my deceit. Everything depended on his answer. I made a show of struggling with the last button on my dress. Toby wet his lips before speaking. I knew sexual desire was still upon him.

  “Can we do it every nigh
t?” He looked at the bundle of twine.

  “Never again until we are married. Then you can do it as many nights as you want.”

  “I told you I’d have you some day, Becky. And now, by God, I’ll always have you. If ’tis a ring on yer finger you want, then my wife you’ll be.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears! The part of my deception I feared most had been the easiest. I flung my arms around Toby and hugged him tight, crying, “Oh, thank you, Toby! Thank you!” And Toby, not knowing my jubilation was one of relief and not of love, cradled me in his arms again. He was soon eager to relive his brief spasm of passion, but I pushed him away. I must keep the bait fresh.

  “Not again, Toby. Not till we are married.”

  And now with the first taste of love still coursing through his loins, Toby said, “If the minister doesn’t sail to our island soon, I will sail you to him.” I kissed him then, a grateful kiss that he mistook for passion, and again I gently fended off his sexual advances. The seduction was nearly done. But only matrimony would complete it.

  The very next day, Toby let everyone in the Place know that he had asked me to marry him and that I had lovingly agreed. We would be married as soon as the minister arrived. With the warming days and fair winds, it should be any day now. My parents and his could not be more pleased. We would make the perfect match, a handsome couple who would produce even better-looking children. For the next several nights I warded off Toby’s attempts at sex. Our kisses only wetted his appetite for me. And though I felt like much-nibbled bait, I dared not relax my guard till the hook was set, and only matrimony would do that.

  Then, late one dusky evening, a schooner appeared at our harbour entrance. The Plunging Star had returned! I watched as her sails came clattering down and she made her way to the wharf. And with her poles bare, I saw him leaning on her taffrail, a lone figure deep in shadow.

  6

  That night I was as frightened as I was the night I was raped. The Culler had returned. I was sure it was him I saw lounging against the taffrail. It had to be. Everyone else on the Star’s deck was uncoiling ropes, furling sail, and readying the schooner for docking. I tossed and turned on top of the blankets and cried the night away. What was I to do? Now my secret would be out. Toby would kill Redjack, and probably me. My life was ruined, completely this time. I was so distraught I was late going downstairs. I didn’t know how to face what I knew was coming. My mother’s loud voice told me my father had already gone “down stage,” and what was the meaning of sleeping so late? I forced my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the ever-present fish pot was simmering on the hob with my share of breakfast in it.

  I crossed the kitchen and said nothing, not wanting my mother to see that I had been crying. I poured tea. I wasn’t hungry, but I would go through the motions, anyway. It was my nature to be hungry every morning. I loved breakfast, and my mother would be asking questions if I didn’t eat this morning. I dipped out the last piece of salt cod from the pot. It was the tail piece. I didn’t like the tail part of the fish very much. Sitting at the table, I was smearing a thin slice of bread with melted butter when my father burst through the door.

  “The minister is here!” He fair cried it out.

  My mother was as thrilled as he was at the news. “Oh, thank the Lord above, the minister has come! Now our Becky and Toby will be married.” She clasped her hands in delight. I said nothing. All I could think was, Oh my God, now the minister will know about my sin, too.

  My father was speaking again, still excited. “Only passenger aboard. Standing at the Star’s taffrail, he was, when one of the boys on the wharf told him about the weddin’ we was wantin’.”

  “Where did you say he was standing, Pop?”

  “Why, at the taffrail, as he always does. Out of the way so’s he won’t have to help. Bloody loafers, ministers are!” He caught my mother’s raised eyebrows and clawed for backwater. “Wonderful preacher this one is, though—so I hear.” My father seldom went to church. My mother never did.

  The relief that flooded through my body was so great I would have lived last night’s sleepless agony over again just to experience that euphoria. There came another clomping of feet outside the kitchen door, and this time it was Toby, who burst through.

  “Did ya hear, Becky my love? The minister came last night on the Star. We can be married as quick as you please.” With his back to my parents, he gave me a lewd wink. Toby’s main reason for wanting to marry me was what he thought would be a nightly bout of consensual sex. And all I wanted was to marry him to legitimize the spawn of rape. The seduction was complete. I had won the hand. But I was so naive, I didn’t know that all of the cards were not yet on the table.

  We were married the next day. It was the first time I saw my mother in church. She was seated on the first pew inside the door beside my father, wearing her black mourning dress. I knew it was the only garment she owned outside of work clothes. Even on my wedding day, she was uncomfortable in church. Every woman in the Place went to church. They cleaned it and dressed it for the seasons. They climbed its short steeple on foggy days to ring its bell, praying its peal would guide their men in from the sea. My mother was never one of them. She would have nothing to do with the church, yet she was staunchly biblical. I always wondered why.

  Toby’s parents and mine, with the help of others, quickly got a wedding meal together in my parents’ kitchen. The spread wasn’t great. It was springtime, the poorest time in our fishing season. Many cupboards were bare. But our wedding night was full with friends who danced jigs to the accordion music played by my father. Salmon nets were in the water, and two large ones caught that day were boiled with small potatoes for our nuptial repast.

  A bottle appeared from somewhere and was passed around until it was empty, under the disapproving glare of my mother. My father played faster and louder after he had a swig of the raw, clear moonshine, and Toby and I danced to his music. The crew of the Plunging Star were invited to the wedding. Just after dark the moon shone down, and with the wind being fair for “a good time along,” they left our harbour, following the moon path to the open sea. The minister went with them, and I watched him from the path outside our door, a dark figure who lounged alone at the taffrail under the stern lantern.

  Long before midnight the celebration ended, and Toby and I walked up to my bedroom as man and wife. It had already been discussed and agreed that we were to live in my parents’ house, at least for now. Toby and I talked about building a house of our own. He was excited about the plans, but I was not. I had thrown the stone, and I was just going along with the ripples it had created in the water.

  I was obligated to accommodate his sexual fervour now. After all, I was his wife. I looked over Toby’s shoulder as he rutted on me on our wedding night, at the molten moon shining through the window. He was as frenzied and as short as a ruffled cock treading a speckled hen. Toby’s rutting was just as quick. I got no gratification from it, only the stirrings of intense pleasure quelled as quickly as they began when my husband suddenly rolled off me. With his back to me, he was snoring before I had cleaned myself. I lay down beside the first and only man who would ever share my bed. And the silvery moonlight poured down on my silent tears.

  As the nights went on, the only relief I got from what for me were a few moments of sexual frustration was to finally convince Toby it was ungodly to have sex on the Sabbath. We were married just one week when I told Toby I feared I was already pregnant. He was surprised and asked how I could tell so fast. I explained I suspected it because I had missed “my time of the month.” He looked perplexed for just a moment and then asked, “Well, what did you expect to happen after doing it every night?” He was soon delighted at the prospect and strutted around the Place as proud as a saddleback with two herring. He was sure he would have a son.

  I was hanging clothes on the line one Monday morning soon after I had told him. Monday was always washday.
I overheard him talking to a few fishermen. They were standing on the path to the harbour, deciding if the ice floes had moved far enough off land to safely set the cod trap. It was late April, and I was a month gone with Redjack’s git in my womb. My belly was showing now. The “love bump,” my friends called it. If only I could tell them that for me it represented a bump of hate.

  “Didn’t take ya long to knock Becky up, Tobe b’y,” one of the men said to him. “She must have took it good on her weddin’ night. Or more likely she was christened on No Denial Rock afore the weddin’.” They talked about women as if we were nothing more than nets that needed mending.

  “A maid again she ne’er will be!” said another. “You took her cherry, Toby b’y.” This one gesticulated wildly with a bump and grind from the waist down that was even more lecherous than the first one’s grin.

  “I ’lows he’s greased the legs o’ the bed so’s her parents don’t hear ’em at it,” the other said.

  They all laughed uproariously at this, all but the man we called the Skipper, who was standing apart and seemed ill at ease with such talk. Toby laughed the loudest. I was mortified, and though their bawdy talk was degrading to me, I kept a sharp ear out for what they would say next. I didn’t have long to wait. Their raucous laughter faded. Peeking around the blanket I was hanging on the line, I saw Toby assume his most arrogant stance, which I knew so well. He was so proud of his exploits, he seemed to have grown an inch taller. If only they knew how inept he was at sex. Toby was about to speak, but the Skipper cut him off.

  “’Ave a care now, b’y, wot ya say. There is a well-known sayin’ about the rock you may not yet ’ave heard. ‘Wot couples share upon love’s mute stone, the secret is for them alone. ’”

  The others nodded their heads at this sage advice, but Toby was taken aback by it. He was obviously about to spew some ribald lies about us on the rock, but he soon regained his composure and said, “Well, in keepin’ with the sayin’, I’ll not say what Becky and I did upon the rock.” This was followed by more laughter. Damn braggart! He hadn’t sense enough to know he had just lied that we had done something up there. There was more to come. “A bed of twine beats one of rock any time, and there is no need to grease the legs, either. The bed does scroop something fierce, though!” All of the men, except he who had warned Toby about his tongue, roared again. I was so mad I broke one of the clothespins.