| Queen Of The Land by Marlene McCarty |
"She's a four-foot-ten-inch streak a' misery an' a tyrant in the bargain!" Dad's face is blood red as he slaps the telegram down on the kitchen table. There's only one person Dad ever calls "tyrant," and only one person who ever sends us telegrams. "Oh, great; another summer ruined," I moan. Mom pushes her glasses back on her sweaty nose and says, "Oh, dear." She picks up the red and white envelope and hands it to me with trembling fingers. "Open it, my love," she says. "It could be something else . . . somebody might be dead." "Don't be so foolish, maid! Dad thunders. "If anybody died, we'd a' got a phone call. Your mother's the only one left on the face of the earth silly enough to send a telegram." He straightens his shoulders, his lips, and his cap; then he takes off out the door with a final few words of warning: "Might as well face it; she's on her way." Now that I'm twelve and know what a tyrant is, I have to agree with Dad. He says the way she lords it all over everyone, you'd think she was Queen of the land or something. It's never been disputed that in her own home she's queen of the castle; but the problem is, that when she comes to visit us she has to be queen of our castle, too. I open the envelope and read the curt message: 'Arrive Twillingate July 24, 10 AM. Arrange taxi. Meet MV Bessie Marie at Government wharf.' That's it, except for her name Mary Bundon at the bottom. Upon hearing the message from Gram Blundon, Mom immediately flies into a tizzy. "Oh my glory; oh, my glory. Only a week left and she'll be here . . ." Within the hour, this is followed by a fit of scrubbing, dusting, and polishing, the likes of which we won't witness again till Gram's next "visit." During this time my sisters and I are little help. We view all this fuss and bother as a big joke. Dad is even less help. To calm Mom down, he says, "Now, maid, no sense in worryin'. She's not the Queen of England ya' know. If she's comin', she's comin'; not a blessed t'ing you can do about it." But Mom knows better. The Queen of England she can handle; but Gram is a different kettle of fish altogether. Uncle Frank, who lives with us, wears a hangdog expression and goes around muttering and mumbling under his breath about having to "give up my bed." Dad makes himself scarce during all this upheaval. He knows his days of peace are numbered, for Gram's opinion of her Son-in-law is legendary here in Back Harbour. The reason Gram can't stand Dad is this: She can't forgive Mom for marrying a fisherman. Nor can she forgive Dad for being one in the first place. And, no amount of argument from anyone about the fact that her father and grandfather had both been fisherman. And not only had Gram, herself, married one, but three of her sons now make their living from the sea. None of this matters to Mary Blundon. She's raised her daughters with one goal in mind; that they marry "gentlemen" and have no truck with men who waste their lives "on the water." Three of her daughters followed this iron-clad rule. One--my mother--did not, and so has fallen from grace. And now it's finally here, G-Day--our day of doom. Today, Dad stays in "off the water." As soon as they hear the Bessie Marie blow her whistle, he and Mom rush off in a taxi. It's only a few minutes drive to the wharf, but to be late meeting Gram is unthinkable. Before they leave, Mom warns us within an inch of our lives not to go anywhere and not to get our clothes dirty. And so we sit here now--my sisters and I--on the front steps, all dressed up in stiff dresses and hair ribbons, and it's not even Sunday. We don't talk. We just sit here waiting. Waiting and watching all the way up to Price's Hill for the first sign of the taxi's return. The last thing either of us wants to do is sit around on a week-day in a dress. But the thoughts of the "racket" that will follow if we're not here all lined up in a row to meet Gram will keep us rooted to these hard wooden steps for as long as it takes. After what seems like hours, we see it--the big cloud of dust at the top of Price's Hill. The sound of the ancient taxi brings us to our feet. Down the road it lurches, rattling and rumbling along, tires crunching over loose gravel, trying in vain to dodge the potholes that line the road like craters. By this time, of course, through the highly efficient Back Harbour party line, just about everyone in the Harbour knows Gram is coming in on the boat today. So with this in mind, several of the women have carefully planned their shopping so they're just "passin' by" about the time the taxi chugs up. A steady stream of snotty-nosed kids and scrawny dogs also appear. They stand outside the picket fence, gawkin' and pokin' fun at us in all our finery, while they wait for Gram's disembarkment from her chariot. In silent pain we sit and wait until the taxi--with much shuddering and jerking--comes to an abrupt halt outside the garden gate. Now, Gram Blundon never does anything half-way. And, she loves an audience. She won't set one foot outside that car 'till she feels enough people have gathered to do her justice. Finally, the passenger door opens and out she steps. From the tips of her impossibly tiny black laced-up shoes to the black shawl on her head, she's the picture of gloom. Her face, a wrinkled piece of old shoe leather, is crisscrossed with a million lines and folds. And her mouth--a tiny pucker of toothless gums--is hardly there at all. Her coal black hair dragged straight back from her forehead is lusterless and dead. In fact, her whole face may have been dead for years; only her eyes don't know the difference. Those eyes, glittering like marbles, sweep the onlookers with disdain as she gathers her many layers of long black skirts up with one hand. With the other hand, she brings her cane down smartly across the taxi's hood. This is a signal to the driver; he can now start unloading her luggage. Also Mom and Dad can get out. And last of all--Mr. Pardy. For Gram never goes anywhere without dragging a reluctant "Mr. Pardy" along. Without a word or a look for anyone, Gram marches through the crowd. With her head high in the air and a look of sadistic glee on her face, she yanks open the gate and confronts us. "Come and kiss your Grammy," she cackles. And I have to go first. She flings her walking stick down on the steps, grabs me and pulls me close, crushing me against her bony bosom and planting wet kisses all over my face. She smells awful. The odor of damp, musty attics and decay seeps through her garments, along with the smell of mothballs, peppermint, and the overwhelming stench of Sweet Pea perfume. Suddenly she releases me! Gasping for fresh air, I stumble down the steps while she goes on to torment my sisters. By now, the luggage is unloaded and in a heap by the side of the road. Gram does not travel lightly: a couple of huge blue metal "steamer" trunks; half-dozen or so black battered suitcases, and numerous smaller zippered bags of various sizes make up her "bits and pieces," as she calls them. After Mr. Pardy pays the driver, the taxi lumbers off. Dad shoos away the kids and dogs; and the nosy old women go about their business. Then Dad and Mr. Pardy start stacking the "bits and pieces" on a handcart, and with much heaving, pushing, and grumbling--and a couple of trips around to the back door--they finally get everything piled in the corner of the porch. Mom anxiously directs them: "Put that one there. No! Not there. Wonder where she wants this one . . .?" And so it goes, till Gram finally pokes her nose around the porch door. She grimly surveys the chaos and proceeds to call them, "ninnys," and " jackasses," and a few other of her favorite names, till Dad gets fed-up with the whole thing and stomps off, leaving Mom and Mr. Pardy to deal with her. Then--the fur flies. Amid this bedlam of bickering I make my escape. Unnoticed, I slip away and race upstairs. Off comes the dress and on goes the old jeans and tee-shirt. I whistle for Terry, my long-haired, short-legged Scotty, and we're off and running. Ahhh, freedom! At least for a couple of hours. And we'd better enjoy it, cause the next ordeal is suppertime with Gram. And that's an ordeal that often leaves Terry cowering under the table and the rest of us looking for the clearest escape route. But . . . for now, the sun is shining, supper's a long way off, and miracles can happen. For sometimes--not often, but sometimes--Gram gets so browned off at everybody that she calls a taxi and takes off to stay with Aunt Liddy and our cousin, Blanche. Then "they" get to have supper with Gram! And we get an extra day or so to batten down before Hurricane Mary arrives in full force--and stays for the summer. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- © 2000 Marlene McCarty |
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