The Welfare Officer Will See You Now
 
By
 
 Chris Decker

     I am stabbing flatfish. The water is calm and clear. I can easily see bottom. Tom cods are swimming near the surface of the water all around the punt.
     Stab!
     My stabber sticks into the sandy bottom. A cloud of mud floats up and when it settles the flatfish is gone. He was a big one. But he was too quick for me.
     "Naamie! Naamie!"
     Someone is shouting my name.
     I look ashore and Mammy is walking out on the stage head. She is a big woman. She's wearing a black dress and a white full body apron. In front the hem of her dress is below her knees but behind it is drawn up to show the backs of her thighs. Her black cotton stockings are rolled down around her ankles. The lungers on the stage creak as she walks over them.
     "Naamie! Get ashore with that punt! You're going to be drowned for sure. A lacing you're going to get just as soon as your father comes home tonight.''
     I scull the punt along to the stage head. I try to avoid her as I climb up, but she grabs me by the back of my singlet and swings me in over the stage head. For a moment I am suspended in mid-air with my feet dangling.
     As soon as my toes touch the deck I break clear and dash through the stage, take a short cut over the salt fish drying on the flake, and I'm running up the path to the house.
     Mammy is waddling along toward the house. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with one of her flabby arms.

     "That boy! What's going' to become of him if his father doesn’t use the belt on him?"
     A phone rings.
      I am out in the trap skiff with father and two other sharemen. I am a full shareman now. I spent a couple years as a half shareman. The trap is full of fish. We are dipping it out.
     The wind is in. It is raining. There's quite a sea running. But we are comfortable. We have on our oil clothes. My suit can stand the weather. Mother oiled it for me herself. She used more oil than was necessary. The suit is heavy but it keeps the water out.
     Father shouts over the wind, "Naam, check the amidships room and see how much water's making."
     I pump out a couple barrels of water.
    One of the sharemen remarks, "Doubt if she can take it all, skipper, I do."                

     "I'll get the punt."

      I tow the punt forward and we fill her to the gunwales. The trap is still over half full. There are other boats heading home. We wave them down and they pull up alongside and we give them the remaining fish.
     It's well after midnight by the time we get the fish put away. Mother and the other women are helping us. We have the lanterns lit.
     I hardly hit the bed before I am asleep and just as I get asleep father awakens me. It is still dark.
     Spinning tires.
     A horn blows.
     We come in from the trap early today. There's a bit of excitement at our house. I'm getting married tonight. The first thing I ask when I come through the door is, "Did the minister get here yet?"
     "Not yet," Mother replies, "but Molly got a telegram. The minister told her to get everything the rights because he'll be here afore six."
     There's a boat steaming in the harbour. She's not a local boat. She has a forward cabin and a wheelhouse. Our boats only have engine houses. I go down to the government wharf to catch the lines and make her fast. The minister recognizes me and holds out his hand as he steps ashore.
     "About to give up your freedom, Naaman?"
     I grin and ask him up to the house for supper. Mother is all flustered. She sets the table in the inside place for the minister. She tries to talk polite but doesn't do a very good job with it. She has a lot of difficulty with the verb 'to be'.
     "I were expecting you to bring your wife," she tells the parson.
     "I had fully intended to bring her along, Mrs. Simms, but she gets terribly seasick. And besides the ladies' aid is meeting tonight.”
     "The forecast are calling for a storm," Mother explains.

     The wedding party comprises seven brides’ maids, seven brides’ boys, Molly and me.
     The men are wearing double breasted blue serge suits with twenty-four-inch cuffs. I had a special suit come from the Big Six for the wedding but the cuffs are a bit too small for my liking. It’s supposed to be the latest style.
     The bridesmaids and Molly are wearing white wedding dresses. Molly's is brand new; never worn before. She had it come for the wedding. The bridesmaids wear dresses borrowed from married women in the community.
     I notice one of the girls is wearing Aunt Nelly's dress. It's easy to recognize because it must be one of the oldest dresses around here now. It has started to turn yellow around the seams. I'm sure someone must have worn that dress at every wedding since Aunt Nelly's own wedding some fifty years ago. A few more weddings and Aunt Nelly's dress will probably be retired.
     Another dress is easily recognized. It belongs to Annie. There's a spot in an embarrassing location on the dress. Annie upset the ink bottle in her lap when she was signing the book at her wedding. At first glance it seems you can see through the dress. The girl who is wearing Annie's dress is careful to keep her hands clasped over the spot.
     "Naaman Simms, wilt thou take Molly Wiseman to be your lawful wedded wife?"
     Take her, sir? I already have. That's why I'm marrying her.
     I get an urge to laugh. I cannot control myself. Everything is funny. The minister blows his nose and when he takes his handkerchief away there is a green snot on his top lip creeping toward his mouth.
     I snicker. I try to get a hold on myself but I can't. We're all laughing except Molly. Poor Molly's sobbing. The bridesmaids cover their faces with their hands; heads bowed, giggling. The girl wearing Annie's dress has one hand over her mouth and one hand over the spot.
     "I will."
     "Molly Wiseman, wilt thou take Naaman Simms to be your lawful wedded husband?”

     "I will."

     We are married. While Molly is signing the book I take out my wallet and hand the minister five dollars. Two twos and a one.
     We keep up the wedding in the Orange Hall. As soon as the wedding party arrives at the hall the brides’ maids disappear into a cloak room. A few minutes later they return. They have changed out of their wedding dresses into everyday clothes. They put on aprons and start waiting on tables.
     People are kissing Molly and slapping me on the back and telling us what a wonderful life we're going to have. Molly is so overjoyed she's crying. When she takes out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes the smell of Florida water drifts away from her.
     The whole community attends the wedding. There were no invitations sent out. It is taken for granted that everyone is invited.
     An effort is made to get the children fed first so they can go home early before the dance. Molly and I make it to the eighth sitting.
     It's against the rules of the Lodge to dance in the main hall. I’ve heard of some terrible consequences when that rule was broken in other places. We dance in the porch. The porch is bigger than the hall.
     Grandfather is playing the accordion and Uncle Simeon is calling off the dance. There's lots of home brew. We all know where it came from but nobody's saying.
     Molly moves into our house. We will live with father and mother until we get our own house. I'll cut some logs this winter and saw them in the spring, and next fall when the fish is shipped I'll build a house.
     We undress. Molly uses the pot first. I hear the sound of swirling piss in the china dish. When Molly gets up I kneel in front of the earthen vessel but I can't do anything although I’m bursting. I get up and blow out the lamp and try again. Second time lucky. Molly giggles.
     A young woman sticks her head into the waiting room.
     She shivers.
     She turns up the thermostat.
     We are married six months or so when Molly goes in labour. It is a vicious night; north-east wind and snow. The gusts of wind make the house shake on its shores. We are in bed snuggled under the quilts. At first she tries to bear the pain but finally tells me to call Mother. I feel the canvas cold under my feet as I go to Mother's room.
     "Better go for Aunt Amy," Mother suggests, after she asks Molly a few questions.

     "Think you can make it by yourself?" Father calls down from upstairs as I'm hauling on my skin boots.
     "It's not too bad out Father. I’ll make it."
     Aunt Amy's door is never locked. She's used to being called up all hours of the night. She was a widow long before I was born. She’s our midwife. That includes bandaging up cuts, setting broken bones, laying out the dead, curing the flu and generally looking after sick people. I don't know who pays her. We've been giving her firewood every year as long as I can mind. Everyone gives her caribou in the winter; and shore ducks and turrs and everything else we catch. She has the best garden in the harbour and grows all kinds of vegetables.
     "Aunt Amy!" I shout as I walk into her house, stamping the snow off my feet. 

    She recognizes my voice at once. "You, is it, Naaman my son? Molly's took, is she?"

     She puts on her dark green coat. As long as I can remember she’s had that coat. When she delivered me twenty years ago, she probably owned that same old coat.

     She's panting for breath.

     "Take me old valise, Naaman, till I gets me muffler on. Now I'm the rights. Let's go.''
     Aunt Amy clings to my arm as we plough our way through the snow. Several times she falls down, but her grip never loosens. I drag her through the drift banks.
     Father is up with the lamp alight and the kitchen fire going when we arrive. He has naked feet. His suspenders are tied around his waist.
     We can hear Molly screaming and Mother trying to quieten her down.

     Aunt Amy chides her as she starts up the stairs, "Hush up child, do! You're going to be all right.”
     "She's having a hard time, isn’t she father?"
     "Don't mind that, Naam. Women can suffer more pain than men."

     The screams get worse.   

      Father toasts some bread and steeps some tea.
     All night Molly is in agony. Aunt Amy told us she thought the baby would be born by daylight. Daylight comes and still Molly suffers. Word gets around that Molly is having a hard time with her baby. Men turn up to tell us they have their dog teams and a coach box ready in case we have to take her out to a doctor. The nearest doctor is eighty miles away. Around eleven o'clock in the morning the upstairs goes silent. A cold shiver goes through me and father and I look at each other without a word.

     Mother rushes downstairs, "It's a boy, Naaman! You have a boy! Oh my, oh my! All glory be to our saviour!"
     Aunt Amy wearily comes downstairs, clinging to the hand rail. Her sleeves are rolled up and she's blood to her elbows. Her hair has fallen down around her shoulders in tangles. Her aged face is covered with blood where she's been wiping off the sweat with the back of her hand.

     Mother pours some water from the kettle into the pan on the washstand in the kitchen.

     “He’ll never drown, Naaman. He had a caul on his face,” Aunt Amy says.
     "Feel that, Aunt Amy. Too hot?" Mother asks.
     "A little more cold water, my child.”
     "How’s that?”
     “Good."
     While Aunt Amy washes, mother takes up the boiled fish and potatoes that father has cooked.
     I go upstairs.    

     Molly looks exhausted. Her face is as white as the pillow she's lying on. She manages to open her eyes, nods to acknowledge my presence and drifts back to sleep.
     The little fellow is bundled up in the bed alongside her. I lean over and lift the blanket off his face.
     My God, he's ugly! He's purple. His hair is coal black and soaking wet. His eyes are shut so tight that his face is all screwed up. He's greasy. They didn’t even wash him. He stinks.
     The whistle blows.
     They're changing shifts at the mill.
     I am in church. Molly and our five children are with me. The church is packed full. We only get our own minister two or three times a year. This fellow belongs to a church I have never heard of before. It's his first service with us. I don't know who loaned him our church.
     It's hot in the chancel. The smell of sweat is too strong to be drowned out with all the Flo water in the world. I catch the occasional whiff of scent but mostly I smell sweat.
     Mother is testifying. She's telling The Almighty how long it's been since she had the opportunity to witness for Christ. She was a wonderful sinner, but she found a wonderful Saviour.
     As soon as she sits down the minister raises a chorus, "Oh Beulah Land!”

     We are all smacking our hands and tapping our feet. I can swear the building is rocking on its foundation.
     The night wears on and it seems the service will never end.
     There are prayers, testimonies and more choruses.
     Just after midnight, the Lord reaches down to me, Naaman Simms, wonderful sinner though I am, and he grabs me by my wretched soul and wrestles me all the way to the mercy seat.
     The altar is lined with souls. Father is among them. The combination of his palsy and the spiritual excitement is making his arm tremble more than ever. Even his head is jerking back and forth.

     Mother is sig-sagging up and down the aisle, singing, "courage to love Him, courage to serve Him". She's waving her arms over her head and reeling from side to side like a ship fighting a north east gale. For good measure she falls at the mercy seat, just to reassure everyone, herself included, that she really is saved.
    We're all praying at once, audibly. The sum total of our supplication is gibberish to mortal man, but God understands every word and every plea. Molly is kneeling beside me. The minister, his arm around her neck, comforts her. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. Frightened children are crying.
     The minister sees the sky open up and angels bearing glad tidings upwards to the courts above. The end of the world is upon us.
     The dawn tears the sky apart and the church service finally draws to a close.
     The like was never known around here before. Fifty souls for the Lord in one night! Case hardened sinners saved! It's truly a revival.
     We form a delegation to meet with the wonderful minister. We ask him to stay and be our leader. He stays.
     Outside the train clinkers by, her whistle shrieking.
     The track rattles.
     There's talk on the radio about confederation. They're saying Newfoundland is going to join Canada. They are saying that when we do our living conditions will become a lot better. I find it hard to understand how that can be. We have it pretty good now. We have plenty to eat and drink. I'm not rich, but I got a dollar when I need it for the minister or for some other special reason.
     I've heard tell of people living on six cents a day. That's dole. Nobody around here would think of accepting dole from the government. I’ve heard that in other parts people are satisfied to go on the government. I suppose you’re going to have people like that no matter who we join.
     I could accept dole too, if I mind to. But as long as I have my trap and my skiff, and as long as the Almighty gives me two strong hands, no government is going to feed me. My two boys are just as good in the boat as I am now; perhaps better. And Molly grows more vegetables than we can eat. You're allowed to shoot the moose that they brought in the country a few years ago. Moose is excellent meat. Better than caribou.
     Join Canada! If all Newfoundlanders are of my mind, we won't join Canada or anyone else.
     Better living conditions!
     I'd like to see it proved!
     How many more?

     Let me see. Three

     They're telling us we should move. Resettle, they call it.
     At first we don't understand what they mean. The concept is foreign to us.
Apparently we cannot expect to get all the essential services as long as we stay in small outports. A government man comes and we have a public meeting. The minister chairs the meeting.
     Someone addresses the chair, "Sir, I was born here. My father and mother are buried in the graveyard up there behind the church. I've only got a few years left on this earth myself. I can't see why I have to leave here now.”
     I nod my head in agreement. My father and mother are buried here too. And what a struggle we had to get Mother's coffin out of the house. Mother was so big that her coffin couldn't get through the door. We had to take out a window, and even then saw out most of the wall.
     The minister answers, "That's all very well, but let's not dwell on the past too much. Think of our children. Can they ever expect to get the schooling here that they could get at a larger centre?''
     Ah yes, he makes a good point. Our youngest girl is sickly all the time. Everyone says she's smart. I'm sure she could be somebody if she had the opportunity.
   "But what about our houses? I built my house with my own hands. We all did. We can't just leave them behind.” A young married man pleads.
     I can relate to what he says. I built my house myself, too. How I worked the winter I cut the logs! I only had three dogs that year and one of them was a pup. There were times when the snow was so deep that I had to shovel the trail. Father made up a harness for me so I could haul the komatic with the dogs.
     "But sir," the government man explained, "we're not asking you to leave your residence behind. The government is giving each homeowner an outright grant of $1,000. You can launch your house to the growth centre; or you can use the grant to build a brand new house when you get there. But whatever you decide to do, just consider the comfort you'll have. There'll be indoor toilets.”

     We all laughed when he said indoor toilets. That would be a nice stink, I’m sure.

     “There'll be telephones and electric lights. There’ll be conveniences you’ve never dreamed possible before.”
     A thousand dollars is a lot of money, I reasoned. There must be seventy families in this village alone. That's $70,000.00. That Canadian government must be wealthy after all. My house didn't cost a thousand dollars. I could build two houses for that. It's only a few nails and a bit of felt. I can cut my own logs and saw all the lumber I want.
     The meeting goes on. Some argue for and some against. At last the question is put.

     "Will we move? Yea or nay?"
     The 'yeas' win.
     And the houses come alive.
     My house yawns, stretches, breaks away from his shores and slides down the hill toward the land-wash. I see Mammy waddling toward the stage to drive me out of the punt.
     Uncle Will's stage and Uncle Ned's stage stand side by side. They are prized apart to make room for the walking houses.
     All around me houses are going crazy. Jumping off their foundations and heading for the water. Grotesque.

     I see the multi coloured houses lined up on the beach waiting for the tide to crest. Cables are fastened to the trap skiffs a couple leagues off shore. Someone yells that the tide has peaked and the engines come alive and foam boils up behind the transoms of a hundred boats and water streams from the cables as the strain comes on them and hauls them tight.

     The houses swim out the tickle. At first their pace is slow but it quickens as the moving tide assists the straining boats.

     The school is left behind, guilty over its inability to teach the children in a modern world. The trees wave goodbye. The stages are left on the shore. They would be a strange anachronism in the growth centre. We will all have better jobs.
     The government sends a mountie in to shoot all the dogs but I have too much respect for mine to have a stranger kill them. Old Fanny looks at me, puzzled, when I point the gun at her.   

     Who needs a dog team when you have a motor car?
     The grass in the graveyard sways back and forth. As soon as our backs are turned it attacks the graves, hugs head stones, buries foot paths, and jams the creaking gate.
     And I am left behind!
     I jump into my punt and grab the oars. They are stuck in the risings and I struggle to tear them loose. They skim over the top of the water and refuse to bite   the water. When I pull with all my strength on the empty blades I lose my balance and fall backward into the sea.

     I hear someone shouting, swim!  swim!  I am sinking. I am drowning. Mammy was right. I’m going to be drowned for sure. Water is surging over my head like a million shiny pebbles dragging me down, down, down.
      I feel tears hot on my cheeks and salt in my mouth.
      Someone touches the back of my neck. Mammy is shouting for me to get out of the punt.
     "Mr. Simms! Mr. Simms!"
     I regain my composure.
     "Mr. Simms! What's wrong? You’re weeping.”
     "I'm sorry, Miss. I'm all right now."

     “Are you sure? The welfare officer will see you now.”