Cold Pastoral Read Free

much! Its whole ceiling was hidden with clusters of hanging kettles, enamel mugs, earthenware tea-pots, pipers, skillets, pots and pans. Josephine stared, wishing for money to buy herself a skillet; but ready cash was scarce, so she lowered her eyes to the remnants. Bolts of blue and pink flannelette were hidden by bits of motley material overflowing from another shelf. Benedict had retreated to pass the time of day with the shopkeeper and discuss the price of fish. They were surrounded with salt-encrusted barrels of pork, while athwart their lids lay harsh-looking hooks. The food side of the shop was piled with boxes and bottles holding every necessity of life. On a narrow counter stood a large cheese, gleaming golden through a veiling of cheese-cloth. The draping and the spotless white of the covering reminded her of the day of Corpus Christi. Thinking of herself veiled for first Communion a pain tore through her body. Startled, she leaned against the bolts of flannelette until it was over. Fingering the woolly fabric she wondered if her hope of a daughter would be realised. She wanted one to dress up in pink and blue. When she had waited long enough to verify her fears she called to her husband. “Ben, I’m going back to sit in the skiff. Don’t be long, now.”
    Had Benedict not been arranging for the transportation of the flour he would have known she was saving herself by the shortening of his name. Josephine always gave full value to every syllable. When she was back in the skiff the level of the sea had become ripples. As she waited the ripples grew to crests and the sea slapped against the sides of the boat. When Benedict appeared with the barrel the waves were white horses. When they were out to sea she told him. His blue eyes were fixed on the tumbling sea.
    â€œNonsense, woman! You can’t go dropping your child in a skiff. Tell your beads. That’ll stop you a bit.”
    â€œChildren choose their own time, Benedict Keilly,” she said tartly.
    â€œYou’ll have to wait until we get home, then,” he answered inexorably.
    Benedict was occupied with the skiff. She belonged to five others, and the sea was giving her a drubbing. He was a steady husband, but a skiff was harder come by than a woman. His wife was facing elemental pain in elemental surroundings and claimed his attention.
    â€œBen, I’m dying!”
    â€œStop it!” he roared. “You’ll put a haunt on the skiff.”
    â€œSkiff or no skiff, I’m dying.” There was an uncontrolled screech. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, have mercy on me!”
    Above the sound of the rising sea he shouted to her. “Pull yourself together, woman. You can’t go dying with no Priest to bless you.”
    At the end of a pain she gasped with spirit. “Don’t fash yourself, Benedict Keilly. Those that pass in childbirth walk straight into Heaven.”
    â€œYou’ll never have a better chance, then. The likes of this won’t happen again.”
    Josephine didn’t die! Between wild agonies she lay under her husband’s coat and a tarpaulin, beseeching the Saints in Heaven. With the sea and the wind in her ears she gave birth! As mysterious agencies were accepted in the Cove, legend grew that Mary Immaculate was delivered by the Blessed Mother herself. How she was born in the skiff became the premier tale of the village, taking precedence over those that had been held: the sailor who had seen the phantom ship; the story of Molly Conway; and the man who was murdered on the Ridge. It was told again and again, over black kitchen stoves holding a bombardment of spruce-logs. It held an honourable place in their lore until Mary Immaculate’s twelfth year. What happened then became an unbelievable super-story, satisfying a lifetime of yearning for romance.
    At first they thought she must die—until something reminded her of her heritage. People born to the assault of the wind and the