Baygirl Read online

  Baygirl

  Heather Smith

  Text copyright © 2013 Heather Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Smith, Heather, 1968

  Baygirl [electronic resource] / Heather Smith.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  isbn 978-1-4598-0275-9 (pdf).--isbn 978-1-4598-0276-6(epub)

  I. Title.

  ps8637.m5623b39 2013 c2013-901883-2

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935299

  Summary: When Kit’s alcoholic fisherman father loses his job, the family is forced to leave the Newfoundland outport they call home.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover images by Getty Images and Steve Feltham

  Author photo by Robin Smith

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  To Duncan, Rosie and April

  And, always, to Rob

  one

  Tickle Cove Pond

  As soon as I opened the door, I could smell it. I looked at my watch. It was only three twenty in the afternoon. But time of day never made any difference to him. He had a whiskey with his bacon and eggs once. He drank it out of a coffee mug, as if that made it okay.

  I threw my backpack on the kitchen floor and put the kettle on.

  “How was school today, my marvelous daughter?”

  “Fine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We talked about The Old Man and The Sea.”

  “Ah, Hemingway.”

  Sounding surprised might set him off, so I kept my voice flat. “You’ve read it?”

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “I certainly have, Kitty, I certainly have. Wonderful book, marvelous, just marvelous.”

  He looked ridiculous, trying to act intelligent.

  “So what did you think of it?” he asked, pouring himself another drink.

  I threw a teabag in a mug and snorted. “I thought, Catch the marlin, old man, and put me out of my misery.”

  My father’s jaw hardened. “You think it’s that easy, do you? Fishin’? You think you just go out on a boat, catch a few fish and come home again?”

  For a second I thought about walking away, but the idea evaporated as quickly as the wisps of steam rising from the kettle.

  I leaned against the counter and folded my arms. “I never said it was easy.”

  “Sounds to me like you did. Sounds to me like you think it’s the easiest job in the world.”

  “All I’m saying is that it took the old man a long time to catch one measly fish.”

  Dad tried to stand up but couldn’t quite get his balance. He gave up, waving a finger for emphasis instead. “Measly fish?” he yelled. “Measly fish?”

  The rumblings inside the kettle grew louder.

  “Lemme tell you something, my lady, I’ve had my own struggles with the ocean and its creatures and I can really understand that Santiago fella.”

  Eye contact might give the impression I was interested, so I looked away. I stared at the stupidest clock ever invented, a monstrosity my father had won at darts twenty years ago. There were bottles of beer where the numbers should be, and my father never tired of announcing it was “beer o’clock” whenever anyone asked the time.

  “Are you listenin’ to me, Kitty?”

  The whistle from the kettle was piercing, an irritating soundtrack to an irritating discussion.

  “Sorry, I was just admiring the clock.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, young lady.”

  “Okay, I’ll be dumb with you. That way we’ll be on the same intellectual level.”

  My father slammed his fist down on the table. “Why can’t we ever have a normal conversation?”

  Replies flooded my brain. Because you’re not a normal person. Because you’re always drunk. Because you’re an idiot. But I knew better than to say any of them out loud, so I just shrugged.

  He poured himself another drink. “What? No smart comebacks?”

  I looked at his bloodshot eyes, his flushed cheeks, the broken veins on his nose. “Nope.”

  When my father spoke again, his voice was barely audible over the sound of the screeching kettle. “I think you owe me an apology.”

  I switched the stove off. “For what?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He just stared into his shot glass.

  “Cue the dramatic pause,” I muttered.

  My father looked hurt. Genuinely. I pretended not to notice.

  “Everything I do, Kitty, is for you. Everything. And you just throw it back in my face. Every time.”

  It was a classic move, the “poor me” act. I’d seen it a thousand times, and I wasn’t falling for it.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

  I didn’t bother pouring the boiled water into my mug. I wouldn’t be there to drink it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He went from sad to smug in an instant.

  “Sorry that you’re such a friggin’ loser.”

  The look on his face was priceless.

  I was out the door before he’d wobbled his way to standing. And, as always, I ran to Nan’s.

  My grandmother lived up the road from us in a little blue house set high on a hill. I couldn’t tell you much about her bedroom. Or her living room. Or any other part of her house, for that matter. But I knew every inch of her kitchen. The yellow walls, the old-fashioned stove in the corner, the rocker by the window and the ancient transistor radio on the windowsill that was rarely turned off. Nan’s kitchen overlooked the whole of Parsons Bay. From her rocker I could see the church, the school and the colorful wooden homes of our neighbors and friends. The inlet, flanked by steep, rugged cliffs, was the focal point. It was a busy spot where fishing boats puttered in and out and old men long retired from the trade gathered to tell tall tales about their days out at sea. The fish plant sat not far from the wharves, where fishing nets lay drying and local boats were docked. Tangled clumps of bright-orange buoys littered the ground, waiting for their chance to bob about in the Atlantic Ocean, which, from Nan’s window, looked endless.

  I was five when I first escaped to Nan’s.

  Dad had been in his smelly old recliner that r
eeked of alcohol, watching The Price is Right. I was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, playing with pots and pans and pretending to cook like our neighbor, Ms. Bartlett, who always had something interesting in her oven. Taking inspiration from her exotic recipes, I shook imaginary spices into my pot.

  “A dash of curry powder,” I sang. “A pinch of fennel.”

  My mother, who was scrubbing the kitchen counters, shook her head and laughed. “This is Parsons Bay, Kit. Not Bombay.”

  A new word. Bombay. I liked it.

  “Bombay!” I said. “Bombay! Bombay! Bombay!”

  “For God’s sake!” Dad yelled. “Get that child to shut her trap. I can’t hear the Showcase Showdown.”

  “Showcase Showdown!” I said. “Showcase Showdown! Showcase Showdown!”

  My mother put a rubber-gloved finger to her lips and whispered, “Like this, Kit. Shhhhowcase Shhhhowdown.”

  I tried it.

  “Good girl,” she said. “Now get back to your cooking. Quietly this time.”

  I flipped a plastic egg timer over and stirred.

  “Want a taste?” I asked when the last grain of sand had fallen through the hourglass.

  Mom bent over and slurped from the wooden spoon I held to her lips.

  “Mmmmm. Delicious!”

  “Play with me,” I said.

  My mother looked at the partially scrubbed counters. “I’m kind of busy…”

  “I have dessert too.” I tempted her with a tinfoil pie pan filled with crumpled tissues. “Lemon meringue.”

  She looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Is it beer o’clock?” I asked.

  A scowl crossed my mother’s face. “No.”

  “What time is it then?”

  The hall clock started to chime. “You tell me,” she said. “Listen.”

  I counted the bongs. “Twelve!”

  Dad must have counted too. “Where’s my bloody lunch?” he yelled. “I’m bloody starving!”

  My mother straightened up. “Sorry, Kit. I’ll have to take a rain check on that pie.”

  I covered my pie pan with a tea towel. “I’ll keep it warm for you.”

  “Good idea,” said Mom.

  My father hollered again. “Where’s my bloody bin of teans?”

  My mother covered her mouth and turned away, but it was too late—I’d caught the smirk, and once I caught something, I wouldn’t let it go.

  “Bin of teans!” I sang. “Bin of teans! Where’s my bloody bin of teans?”

  My mother shushed me as she emptied a can of Heinz baked beans into a saucepan.

  “Bin of teans! Bin of teans! Where’s my bloody bin of teans?” I sang again.

  “Shhh, Kit, seriously. Be quiet,” said my mother, but I could tell she thought it was funny.

  I turned a pot upside down and sang the song again, pounding out an accompanying rhythm with a wooden spoon.

  “Kit.” My mother giggled. “Stop it.”

  I liked it when she laughed. So I stood on top of the pot and threw my arms in the air and sang in my best Julie Andrews voice, “Bin of teans! Bin of teans! Where’s my bloody bin of teans?”

  And there he was. In the doorway. “What’s that bloody racket? Can’t a man watch the TV in peace?”

  My mother went all slumpy and saggy. Like a deflated balloon. “It’s almost done, Phonse.” She sighed. “Sit down at the table and I’ll dish it up.”

  “I’ve been waiting for hours,” he said, stumbling through the mess of pots and pans. “Hours and hours. I’m hungry.”

  “It hasn’t been hours,” Mom said. “It’s been about ten minutes.”

  My father sat down hard in his chair.

  “I got you the ones you like,” Mom said. “The ones with bits of bacon mixed in.”

  “Well, whoopdi-bloody-doo,” he said.

  “That’s rude,” I said in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Yeah, it is,” agreed Mom.

  “Stop harrashin’ me,” Dad said.

  “Stop harrashin’ me,” I said, mimicking my father’s gruff smoker’s voice.

  Mom flashed me a warning look.

  Dad stared at me and then at my mom. “Fishing twenny-four/seven to pervide for you two,” he grumbled, “and whadoo I get?”

  My mother put the bowl in front of him. “Lunch. Here it is. Now eat it.”

  “I want more than lunch,” he said. “What I want is respeck!’ He tried to hit the table with his fist but missed and ended up punching himself in the crotch.

  My mother shook her head impatiently. “Eat your beans, Alphonsus.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, woman.”

  Mom ran some water in the empty pot and stared out the kitchen window. “I’m so tired of this.”

  “I’m tired too,” said my father. “Tired of workin’ my fingers to the bone. Twenny-four/seven, I work. Twenny-four/seven.”

  My mother reeled around, her eyes so wild I thought for sure her voice would be loud. I even covered my ears. But what came out was a low growl. “The only thing you do twenty-four/seven is—”

  And then she looked at me. And stopped talking.

  My parents stared at each other like they were having some kind of cowboy showdown. There were beans stuck to my father’s chin. It was gross. So I put the biggest pot over my head.

  I wondered when the staring contest would end. Then I heard the kitchen chair being pushed back. I peeked out. Dad was attempting to stand. He rocked a bit to the left, then he rocked a bit to the right. He looked down at me. He seemed confused, like he knew me but wasn’t sure from where. Then he picked up the bowl of beans and threw it against the wall.

  We stared, stunned, at the mess.

  “You raving lunatic!” my mother yelled.

  A sticky, gloopy brown mess slid down the wall. It looked like poop. It made me feel sick. So I ran out the door and down the dirt road. I only had to pass three houses to get to Nan’s. The first was Ms. Bartlett’s. The next house after that belonged to my best friend, Anne-Marie Munro. She was outside playing in the dirt as I raced by.

  “I’m going to Nan’s,” I yelled. “By myself!”

  Anne-Marie looked stunned, then called, “Watch out for Fisty Hinks!”

  When I passed the next house with its weathered gray clapboard and twitching curtains, I ran extra fast. Fisty Hinks didn’t like kids. If he heard them, he’d come out with his hand balled up in a fist. “I’ll getcha, ya little buggers,” he’d shout.

  Nan’s was the last house of all. She didn’t ask me where my parents were or why I was by myself. The only thing she asked was did I want one slice of homemade bread with molasses or two. She made me a cup of weak tea with loads of milk and lots of sugar. She called it “baby tea.” It fixed my tummy.

  I went to Nan’s lots after that. She was always at the stove, sweating over partridgeberry jam, or at the table, making bread. Sometimes she’d knead the dough so hard my cup of tea would quiver and shake. Nan’s apron was brown with blue flowers. It tied around her waist, cutting right into her middle so that a small roll of fat bulged out over the top. Nan wasn’t a big woman. But she was sturdy…solid…strong. The strongest woman I had ever known.

  Nan was always singing. My favorite was the one about a man and his horse. The horse was named Kit, like me. One day, the man used the frozen pond as a shortcut and the ice broke.

  I raised an alarm you could hear for a mile

  And neighbors turned up in a very short while

  You can always rely on the Oldfords and Whites

  To render assistance in all your bad plights

  To help a poor neighbor is part of their lives

  And the same I can say for their children and wives.

 
Every time I heard this song, I shivered. That poor mare must have been chilled to the bone. So I imagined drying her with my hair dryer and brushing her mane until she looked like one of my sparkly plastic ponies. But when I hear the song now, I don’t think about ponies. I think about neighbors…and how important they are.

  I showed up at Nan’s pissed off and out of breath after the fight with Dad. She barely glanced up from her knitting. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—far from it. My bursting through her door in a huff was a regular occurrence, that’s all. She was used to it.

  “What was it this time?” she asked.

  I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “We got into a fight.”

  What I loved about Nan was that I didn’t have to pretend. Even though he was her only son, I could rant about my dad till I was blue in the face. It made a nice change from playing happy families with my mother at home.

  “A fight?” she said, her knitting needles moving at lightning speed. “A fight about what?”

  “The Old Man and the Sea.”

  The clickity-clack of the needles stopped and Nan looked up at me. “The who and the what?”

  The look on her face was classic—the squinty eyes, the scrunched-up nose, the wrinkled forehead. She was my instant mood improver. Bad day? Just add Nan. I leaned over and kissed her again. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s not important. Cup of tea?”

  She nodded.

  I filled up the kettle. “Whatcha knitting?”

  The clickity-clack resumed. “Mittens.”

  “Mittens? In June?”

  “There’s a church fundraiser in September. I’m going to try to make thirty pairs.”

  “Thirty? That’ll take all summer.”

  Nan shrugged. “What else am I going to do? It’s not like I’ll be jetting off to Paris or anything.”

  “Who’d want to go to Paris anyway?” I snorted.

  Nan looked up, this time surprised. “I would, for one!”

  I couldn’t picture Nan posing for a photo in front of the Eiffel Tower but didn’t say so. “Not me,” I said. “I’d take Parsons Bay any day. Especially in summer.”

  Nan tutted and shook her head. “You’re sixteen years old, Kit. Where’s your sense of adventure?”