The Mill

 

INTRODUCTION

The complex squatted on land dredged from the adjacent river bed. In the spring, the saturated earth threatened to swallow the mill and the few adjacent houses; The Summer heat baked the earth while listless winds wandered the grounds.

            My youthful view was from the grimy windows of an ancient school bus groaning past the site with depressing regularity. As a sullen teen, I knew the mill absently as the place where Dad worked. Actually, he didn't work "in" the mill. He was the bookkeeper/paymaster in the company office a few hundred yards up the street. A few years later, when I needed work to pay student loans; the mill gave me steady employment at a fair wage.

            It has been shuttered for decades and forgotten by many except retirees and the bank that seized the assets in a bankruptcy claim.

 

In the late eighties and onward, many forestry and mining companies in the Miramichi region shared similar fates. Raw material became unprofitable to access or process. With outdated equipment and shifting markets, many industries collapsed.

Economic and political variables play out with little regard for employees and citizens. People are left to stare at rusting machinery and collapsing buildings. They have a brief time to reflect on their lives and income before they drift to the next era in their community or leave it. The Miramichi region has experienced the vagaries of primary industries since the 1800s.

This story offers an alternate perspective. It follows four generations of the Burchill family, who created a lumber dynasty stretching over one hundred forty years. The narrative draws from a variety of sources, including John Burchill and his father, Senator Percy Burchill.

Through the experiences of successive generations, this account describes these men as entrepreneurs and community supporters.

The author gratefully acknowledges Derek Burchill (John’s son). His cooperation was essential in making much of the material available.

The Burchill story is compelling. Their successes and failures are intrinsically tied to the people of Miramichi, specifically the residents of the small village of Nelson, where the mill was located.

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE - Beginnings

The story begins on Beaubear’s Island (Quoomeneegook), or "Island of Pines" as it was known to the Migmaw people. Less than 3 km long and 1 km wide, it’s at the confluence of the Northwest Miramichi and Southwest Miramichi rivers. Towering White Pines still form a canopy over most of the island. For the Mi’gmaw, it was their living and hunting grounds for a thousand years before the appearance of Scottish settlers led by William Davidson.

Davidson was the first non-indigenous person to establish a community on Beaubear’s. His efforts included clearing a portion of the island, harvesting the White Pine for the British Navy, and setting up a fisheries industry. An Acadian population followed after their expulsion by the British from the area we know as New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.

 

 

General Charles Boishebert the island’s namesake) led 900 Acadians from Nova Scotia in a desperate attempt to find a new home. They were not prepared for the harsh climate.

In the first winter of 1657, it is estimated, two hundred individuals died of malnutrition and scurvy. A couple of years later, The British, in a show of force and retribution, massacred most of the others, including women and children.

The island remained unoccupied for the next century. In the early 1800s, the Irish settled on Beaubear’s Island. In 1826, six-year-old George Burchill peered over a ship’s railing as it made its way along the Miramichi River. George, his two brothers, and two sisters could barely contain their excitement. Their parents paired the anticipation with uncertainty. Unlike the generation of Irish emigrants who followed, starvation from famine was not the motivator. The Burchills left behind their comfortable home and way of life in Bandon, Ireland.

The father, Thomas, chose to bring his young family to the sparsely populated country so they would know the value of creating a new life for themselves.

As he matured, George did not disappoint his parents. He began work as a clerk while still in school.

Joseph Russell, a local entrepreneur and shipbuilder, frequented the store where the young Burchill worked. He noticed the boy’s energy and efficiency. In 1840, he hired George as a clerk, and in less than seven years, Burchill had risen to Business Manager, and worked closely with John Harley, the young, ambitious Master Builder. The two became friends. They began to share a vision of one day creating their shipbuilding company. Their first loyalty remained with Russell, who willingly volunteered his knowledge as a businessman and shipbuilder.

Burchill and Harley were enthusiastic students of the older man. Russell was a conscientious person who worked hard to improve the lot of his employees and the community.

He was also a devout Mormon who attempted to recruit followers. The effort was met with resentment from the predominantly Irish Catholic residents. At one gathering of the small Mormon flock, a band of hooligans broke into the meeting. They ridiculed the participants and beat Russell so severely that he gave up the pulpit.

The persecution of those he had helped weighed heavily on him, and Russell decided to move his family to Beaubear’s Island to. Coincidental to his move, the timber market was low. The once-thriving Cunard yard went broke. And with it the savings of many residents of Chatham. Cunard was the de facto banker before the established institutions. Joseph Russell saw the future that did not include him. On June 24, 1850, he set sail for the USA on the Omega, the last vessel he had constructed. Before he left, he negotiated the sale of his boatyard and inventory to Burchill and Harley.

It was not the transition they anticipated but the two men met the challenge head-on. They introduced efficiencies in the boatbuilding process.

They reasoned, a ship’s life could be expanded and thus made more profitable. Harley and Burchill built sturdy and reliable craft and they insured them adequately. They produced nine square-rigged ships weighing 500 to over 1000 tons. The feat would be herculean by today’s standards when considering the rudimentary construction tools. Two of their vessels, "Ocean Bride" and "Equator," carried cargo worldwide for decades. 

A Boy's Christmas

 

Mrs. King, my Home room teacher, is getting us to write about an important time of the year that we think is special. She feels that remembering those things is positive and helpful for people. It builds character. I don’t know what all that means, but if we do a good job, we won’t have to take the English exam, so I’m writing about Christmas.

Today is December 2, 1979. My name is John. I am fifteen years old. We don’t use last names, don’t know why. I have a brother, James. He is my twin. I mention him because the things I describe, he is also involved. Linda and Gail are my older sisters. We live with our parents, Earl and Julia, in the village of Nelson, New Brunswick. It seems the same as other villages, but I don’t know. I lived nowhere else. A lot of people work at the nearby pulp and paper mills. Many poor families remain. We don’t live in a mansion, but we got it pretty good.

I’m going to start my story here. That other stuff Mrs. King calls background, and she says it is important. Christmas means much to our family and neighbours. It’s way different from what goes on in the cities you see on TV. There are no big shopping places. Kmart and Zellers are the biggest. There aren’t any fancy restaurants. At The Queensway in Newcastle, you can sit down and enjoy delicious burgers and fries. Dad says we may not be dollar-rich, but we have lots of what counts. Anyway, back to my story.

 

 

 

We get ready for the season in mid-October with our family making meat pies. They are not just any meat pies. They are tourtières, a French-Canadian dish, made with minced pork, veal or beef, wild game and potatoes. My grandmother (Mom’s mother) is an Acadian. She taught her children learned to make them. Now we are another generation keeping a tradition alive. Mom buys meat at the Coop store because there is more choice and it’s cheaper. James and I set rabbit snares in late October after a full moon frost. We usually get a few and put them in our home freezer. Rabbit meat is tender and tastes great.

On a Friday night, in early November, Mom brings out the crank grinder, which has been in our family’s house for generations. The cast-iron design is perfect for its one purpose. Mom arranges the fresh meat on the counter. We cut each piece into one-inch cubes. She watches the operation like a Sargent Major. After cubing, we take turns adding the pieces to the grinder and turning the handle. It’s tiring after a while.

 Two large pots are pre–heated on the stove. Potatoes from our garden are cut up and boiled. Mom puts in onions, summer savoury and spices in amounts she figures from experience. During the two to three hours of cooking, the delicious aroma swirls around the kitchen.

The cooking extravaganza happens on a weekend, so we get to stay up late and help. Most times, we crank out thirty pies. That is a lot of work, but we have plenty of laughs. When the cooking job is done and everything is cleaned, we are ready to hit the hay. Mom prepares the pastry late into the night. We tried to do it, but it kept coming apart, so she gave up showing us. She makes moulding and rolling the pastry look easy. Meat pies filled the counter space and the table when we came down for breakfast.

 

 

After the pies cooled, we printed “Merry Christmas” on labels; Gail does this because she’s the best printer. We fill the chest freezer in the back porch and the one in the refrigerator. The second big part of our Christmas planning happens in mid-November. That is when James and me go tipping. I don’t mean like in Newfoundland, where kids sneak at night and tip cows over while they’re sleeping. I just thought of that. Kinda dumb but funny. Fir tips, used for wreath-making, are what we get. The woods are just across the road. We use the big Ski-Doo that Dad has for his work as a forest ranger. He sometimes needs to find lost or injured people. He trained us in orienteering and survival skills.

When choosing fir trees, we look for ones with many healthy branches and soft tips. To keep the trees growing healthy, we prune branches at different heights. To reach the top, someone must climb the tree. James is smaller. He can scramble like a cat and I’m not keen on going up too high. I think it’s true that twins are closer than regular brothers and sisters. We watch out for each other and seem to know what the other is thinking.

We bring the fir branches and some white pine boughs home and put them on the back porch where it’s cold. They stay fresh. Mom and her sisters use the boughs to make wreaths. The tradition began with our aunt Ovilda. She learned it from her older neighbour. Our house gets lively when Mom and her sisters come for wreath night. Mom sets out a big feed with clam chowder and a lot of sweets. They enjoyed conversation and laughter. They finished decorating, laughing as they left.

 

 

 

The next day, we get the boughs of white pine that we collected with the fir. We tied the boughs together with a red bow in the middle. Over each downstairs doorway frame, we put the decorations. We placed the wreaths in the windows overlooking the busy main road. On the bottom centre of each, we attach a small clip-on battery light. They look nice and the fresh smell of fir and pine is everywhere.

The third big preparation for us explains why we made all those meat pies. My parents are active in our church. Folks here are not poor, but some families have a hard time getting by. The Coop displays a Christmas food drive notice near mid-November, alongside a donation bin. Someone makes a gift list. My father and some villagers know who is having a rough time. A week before Christmas, they collect the groceries and the Coop donates a turkey for each family. That all ends up in the “Front Room” at home. We keep the fancy furniture there for special events, such as Mom’s card parties and visits. Following the list, Dad, Mom, and others fill about twenty-five boxes.

Two days before Christmas, Dad, James, and I load our car for the deliveries. Our old car seems to work better on that day with a magical power. The “sleigh” driver is Dad and I guess we are the elves wearing Christmas stocking hats. We began at nine, handling boxes with care and courtesy when we deliver to the houses.  It’s like Dad says,

“Poverty isn’t pretty boys. Some of these folks may look and sound rough. But remember, that doesn’t make them any less than us.”

We start in the morning to get to all the places in one day. There we are with Dad, drinking from his thermos of hot tea, sometimes wiping the frost off the windshield to help the wheezing defroster. We take turns sitting in the front seat, listening to CKMR radio and belting out Christmas tunes.James and I inspect each house’s box labels. We put the tourtiere on the top, kinda like our special gift to them. It still hits me when I go into the home of a guy or a girl I know from school. I’m nervous but when I see the look of happiness and relief of a parent, I know it’s right.

On Christmas Eve, we drive to the church for Midnight Mass. One hundred years ago, builders constructed our church using stones from a quarry downriver. It has stained glass windows that look nice at night when all the lights are on. James and I do parking attendant stuff before and after Mass. Some folks may have a bit too much cheer and forget how to park, but everybody is in a good mood, so it goes well. Even the choir, which sounds like strangling chickens, kicks it up a notch, and it’s not too bad. After we come back from the Mass, we get to enjoy some of the meat pies. They always taste great, especially with chow. Friends drop by and we have a good time.

On Christmas Day, for supper, we have a big turkey with heaping bowls of snow-white potatoes, steaming hot gravy, carrots and peas. After the grand feast, the adults go to the “Front Room” to enjoy a plate full of Christmas cookies with coffee or tea. We kids help serve people. We don’t mind doing it, even when some folks have too much to drink and act foolish

It takes an hour or so to clear the tables, do the dishes and store leftovers. Our friends who come to the meal help too. Everybody pitches in. After Mom approves the job, we put on our winter gear and head outside. Snowmobiling is popular, and several fellows have them. The river is well frozen, with an excellent base of snow providing traction.

 

 

I’m coming to the end of this essay. I need to produce a good copy to hand in. Gail says that a lad named Steve Jobs invented a “personal computer” that is the size of a textbook. In five years, any family can buy one. Students will type while viewing a screen. Learning that would take me years.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS, Mrs. King

PS: don’t mark this too hard.

 John wrote this school paper over forty-five years ago. He is a grandfather now. But the person and the values behind it have remained unchanged.

 For some fortunate people, youth is a time of growth, spent in a secure family. When health and education work together, people pass on the blessings to their children. This pattern continues throughout the generations of residents in this small community and others in the Miramichi region of New Brunswick.

Christmas on the River

 

“Christmas On The River” includes stories from the authors childhood growing up in Miramichi, New Brunswick.
Other narratives are taken from personal interviews with a variety of people, including one with his ninety-eight-year-old aunt.
The episodes are an eclectic mixture of sweet, sad, and joyful events that occurred on or near the sprawling Miramichi River in New Brunswick. As well, the river becomes a character for a few of the adventures. Two talented artists richly illustrated the stories

Purchase at Amazon.ca

The Teacher

 I worked for thirty-eight years in education, first as a high school English teacher, then as a manager in various positions within a regional community college system. 

Have you noticed I haven’t used the word “educator”? For years, when someone referred to me as an educator, I felt like a fraud who eventually would be called out. I will explain what I mean by sharing what I have learned about teaching through teachers and students. This story follows an idea introduced early in the collection: seek opportunities to learn from people and experiences.

Before we start, can we take a moment? I promise this isn’t a test. Relax, close your eyes or keep them open. Your choice. Remember a teacher who has helped you move forward in your life. Few of us mature without help from others. After parents, teachers are the adults who probably spend the most time with us as kids. Because of the environment, their relationship with us differs from that of our parents. Let me tell you what life lessons I learned from a few of my teachers.

My elementary teachers were three gentle and kind nuns from the Congregation de Notre Dame (CND). They encouraged this capricious young boy to explore the world around him enthusiastically and delightfully.

My third-grade teacher continued the supportive method. When her father died suddenly in a workplace accident, she used it as a teaching opportunity with her young students. 

Mona returned to our class shortly after the funeral of her dad. She introduced the topic of death so we could understand and patiently allowed us to ask questions on a subject few of our parents could. Her gift to us was empathy. We loved her, and each returned the love in his / her childlike way.

Junior high students present unique challenges to teachers. They have a curiosity and desire to learn that may or may not align with the school curriculum. Hormones drive much of their thinking. The discovery that I was gay compounded my sexual transformation.

It was also when I morphed from a focused, diligent student to one who wanted peer approval above all else. I became the class clown. I was not a good fit for that role. 

One incident whispered about in the hallways for months after occurred in grade eight Math class. Mrs. Laney was the most feared teacher in our school. Her smile was rare and looked more like a scar when it appeared. She was an older widow who did not suffer fools well. I was sitting in the front seat, keen to show my clown side. Mrs. Laney was at the board. She bent down to tie her shoelace. Like the rest of the front-seat students, my attention was on the diversion, hoping it would last.

Just as she stood up, her bra came off, landing on the floor. Without missing a word, she turned to face the board and readjusted herself. Seizing the moment, I signaled to the other students. With lightning speed, 

Mrs. Laney whipped around, wardrobe intact and cuffed me in the back of the head, knocking me out of my seat. I climbed back to my desk, unhurt but humiliated. That ended my clown routine. 

With today’s code of teacher conduct, her actions would cause a stir. In the 1960s classroom, it was a helpful teaching and learning moment.

High school for this young man, struggling to understand his sexual identity, was a bland experience. At this point in my life, if I were to avoid a tormented existence in small-town New Brunswick, I would have to crawl into the closet and wait until I could get away. 

My experience was not unique; undoubtedly, my story would have been very different if I had come out to my family and community. But every disincentive was in place for me to consider that option, including social norms that were blatantly homophobic.

Most of my high school teachers failed to help move me, primarily because they were met by a young man locked in a world of depression. But some saw potential. 

René, a chain-smoking anglophone Quebecer, would roll up his sleeves at the start of history class. He would pace incessantly around the classroom with great conviction and dedication in every sentence. On those days when I was alert, I listened to his every word; other days, when I was too tired or hung over from loading boats at the local pier, he let me sleep. There was no judgment.

Paul, my grade ten English teacher, was tagged as gay. Paul showed up every day and did his best despite snide comments from a rarely disciplined bully who was a hockey player, which set him above the rest of us. 

I learned from Paul the courage to be yourself. But I threw the lesson away, afraid someone would discover I was gay. When I read of his death, I deeply regretted what I had lost in shutting him out.

Jim, the principal of my high school, called me to his office one day. I was in my first year of grade eleven, seriously depressed, and set to fail. He didn’t chastise me or bother with the cheer-up, better times ahead speech. We talked about mutually interesting topics, community and politics. He listened with interest to what I had to say. There was respect and a willingness to hear.

Despite my lackluster academic performance, I was accepted to university. Universities of the seventies were places to explore ideas and careers. I majored in psychology and was encouraged by my instructors to pursue the career, but later learned it could not be my profession. I was fascinated with people’s thinking. But I knew I would lose myself in helping others, leaving us both adrift.

As I neared the end of my undergraduate degree, I did what many do. I panicked. What job could I get with a Bachelor of Arts? I needed a specific skill set to be employed. Law or Education degrees were the following logical options. I knew more employed teachers than lawyers, and they seemed to like their work. It may have seemed like an impulsive decision. Still, forces are directing our lives well beyond our comprehension, as in my case. I spent the next two years in a Bachelor of Education program.

For the first week, I sat in Dr. Susan McNevan’s class, Elementary Education; I wanted out badly. She personified my hypermasculine image of an elementary school teacher, including her fawning, childlike voice. I spent the after-class discussions demeaning her teaching style to my friends and classmates. This quiet, non-assuming lady was jeopardizing my wafer-thin persona of masculinity. She silently removed each stone from the wall I was building to protect myself.

I filled out a course transfer request. A requirement of transferring is that a student meets with the instructor. 

At the appointed time, I knocked on her door, intending the meeting would be brief and direct. Two hours later, I left her office humbled by her ability to listen sincerely to this brash young man. She spoke of what she saw in me as a teacher, often commenting on my assignments and class discussions. Susan took me where I was, with no judgements. That evening, I tore up the transfer request in my dorm room.

Susan was also one of the few who looked behind the curtain to find an unhappy young man. She showed a unique empathy that I still find hard to describe. Eventually, she was the first adult I came out to. I studied and tried to emulate those qualities I saw in her: trust, empathy, respect, and humility. Almost a half-century later, I am proud to report that I am still a student. Thank you, Susan.

After graduation, Dad suggested I apply to teach in the local school district. Shortly, I received an invitation for an interview. The fact that the sole interviewer was the superintendent seemed peculiar. I had expected to meet with several persons who would quiz me on my teaching experience (none), other work experience (summer student), and educational philosophy (working on it). No, just me and the superintendent, who seemed more nervous than I was.

He emphasized the strong working relationship he had with my father. Dad had been a leader on the School Board for three decades. 

Several days later, he called and offered me a full-time position teaching at the regional high school. I casually accepted. The inability to see that I did not have the academic credentials or background to teach English escaped me. I was the poster child for the privileged white male, believing I deserved an award for just showing up. I soon learned I needed more than my father’s name to instruct a high school English class.

It’s time to fast forward again, a bit slower this time and after my first-year teaching. I will fill in a few pieces along the way. Classroom discipline, which often dominates today’s talk of education, was relatively easy for me. 

When I first wrote this paragraph, it was to show that I had incorporated the life lessons my teachers taught me over the years. It would have neatly wrapped up my story. But our lives are like rivers; they find their own paths, seldom direct. At this stage of my life, my persona seemed set. My first evaluation read, “Doug is an outgoing, enthusiastic and hardworking young man. He brings to teaching a no-nonsense approach to classroom management.” That was the outward image I presented. But internally, I had made little progress in accepting the young man hiding from himself.

I survived my first year of teaching. In some ways, I thrived by gradually learning to apply some of the characteristics of a good teacher I had been taught. As often has happened, the right people were there when I needed them.

Carl was the supervising instructor in my practice teaching. He was a unique individual, intelligent and an excellent mentor. Methodical in lesson planning and delivery, he was a teacher’s teacher. The students and their peers respected him. He had a Master’s degree in English and had been teaching for twenty-five years when we met. With his guidance, my practice teaching sessions proved rewarding for the students and me. I later learned he had recommended me for a full-time appointment.

On my first day with him as my Department Head, he offered to share his teaching materials and lessons until I got comfortable. I was stunned. As a novice, I was being given the holy grail! But Carl was no fool.

“Doug, I don’t know how much longer I can teach. I was diagnosed with MS this summer. (He was 44.) I’m losing muscle strength and tire quickly. When I leave, I want to know that the person I guided is here for the students. Teaching is changing. Many instructors your age don’t want to spend the time preparing and teaching. I watched you in practice teaching. You are still rough around the edges, especially when you let some of the local dialect slip out.

“But you are prepared, and you care for the students. You have full access to my material, and if you need more clarification on a lesson, come to me. Is that understood, and will you agree?”

I said yes to both and left Carl’s office, relieved and humbled.

David had been my first-year grade eleven English teacher before we met on my first day at work six years later. He also had a Master’s degree in English. As a lost and bored student, I enjoyed David’s teaching style. He seemed to blow into and around the classroom. He had energy, and his feisty teaching style kept the class on its toes. David’s preparation seemed limited to a few notes scribbled in the corners of the Teachers Plan book.

As coworkers, he and I bonded almost immediately. We shared a quirky sense of humour, which included an irreverent worldview. David believed his coworkers lacked the necessary degree of skepticism and that I might know what he was talking about. He offered me free access to his teaching materials to demonstrate his confidence in appointing me as his consort. 

The fact that our desks were adjacent ensured I could call upon his vast vault of knowledge.

So, there it was, for very different reasons; both Master instructors had adopted this young teacher and would ensure his success. As I matured in the field, I did take pieces of their styles and moulded them to fit my personality. I remain grateful to Carl and David, both of whom, as Shakespeare would say, have “thrown off the shackles of this world.” I hope I did not disappoint them.

I promised to include input from students who helped me craft my career.

Christine was a grade twelve student in the Business program. She had a sincere and lively personality. She was part of a class of students from the Industrial and Clerical programs. The group was on a vocational stream, and English was not a favourite subject. The curriculum included a unit on poetry. I knew this would be an uphill battle.

We talked it over, and with their help, I put together a course that featured lyrical music from our albums. We laid out a list of objectives we would look at in the songs, and each class would feature about four pieces. It was a sensation. I was intrigued by the students’ interpretive skills. They made up for their lack of eloquence by connecting a song’s message and their lives.

 Several years later, I met Christine in a local store. She introduced me to her daughter as “the best English teacher I ever had, and Mr. Dolan, that music thing you did was some nuts!” I hold that comment as a tremendous compliment.

Ricky was a quiet and serious pupil in my grade eleven class. He was a solid second-level student, so when his marks started to slip, I was concerned and talked with him after class. I didn’t want to pry into his personal life. I recalled my angst at that age. I offered an ear should he want it. And I added that he was intelligent with real potential, encouraging him not to be discouraged if things were bad now. They would change if he stayed focused. His marks improved, and he passed easily. 

Twelve years later, Ricky was a senior police officer, and I was the Department Head of Protective Services at a Community College. We were reviewing a small project on which I had agreed to help. 

Wrapping up our discussion, he became quiet and asked if he could share something with me.

“Doug, you may not remember me in grade eleven (I did). My marks were slipping. You took the time to show me you noticed and encouraged me to keep focused. I always remembered that; it helped me get where I am now. Thank you.”

Gregg was one of those students who was a pleasure to work with. Intelligent, polite and focused. Despite being shy, he consistently enjoyed my classes and was always eager to participate. I was reading the provincial news recently and saw that he had been appointed to serve as a judge in the provincial court system. I sent a brief congratulatory email. I was surprised and humbled when he replied, telling me he considered himself extremely fortunate to have me as his teacher. He made particular mention of feeling respected as my student.

I am generally proud of my work in teaching and my relationship with my students. I incorporated many life lessons I was taught as a student and later as a teacher. I am disappointed that the students did not know me as a gay man. They would have seen a more expressive, spontaneous person open to different ideas and people. For those former students whom I may have curtailed their uniqueness, I apologize. And to my former self, I am sorry for not letting your light shine as brightly as it could have. You did your best, and your students are the better for it.

Death Of A Policeman

 

On December 14, 1974, two Moncton police officers, Constables Michael O’Leary and Corporal Aurèle Bourgeois were shot to death and buried in shallow graves outside of Moncton. They had been searching for the kidnappers of a 14-year-old boy. The effect of their deaths on the families and co-workers was immediate and has lasted for generations. This historical fiction piece attempts to follow the life of one of those persons. Names and other information have been changed to protect identities.

Introduction

The rhythmic hissing of the ventilator is strangely calming to the woman holding vigil at his bedside. Last week, a nervous young doctor told her that her husband had “multiple cancers” discovered on the CT scan. Like an electrical grid map after a lightning strike, her mind shut down, unable to assimilate the information. Reg responded with determination and desperation that he would “beat this thing.” Now, as he lay in a coma, she struggled in an eddy of emotions, trying to connect the pieces of their life.

Reg Storey was born in southern New Brunswick. His community offered little employment to a high school dropout. While still young, he travelled to the old-growth forest of British Columbia, where he worked sixteen-hour days. He cut an imposing figure and never shied away from a co-worker foolish enough to challenge him to a scuffle. Returning to New Brunswick, his reputation as a tough but fair man followed. He was hired and trained by the local police force. After completing the program, on a fine summer evening, he met Rita Arsenault at a local dance. Reg was not a subtle man. He spied the pretty young woman as he entered the hall. Abandoning his police buddies and fortified with a few drinks, he walked over to introduce himself. Rita, who had just moved to the city from her home in Nova Scotia, found the man

 

charming in a rough sort of way. She made room for him among her friends, and the two fell into a conversation like old companions. He stopped in to visit many times after that. Three months later, they sat quietly in the corner of a local café while the snow fell heavily outside.

He couldn’t find a place to rest his big, brawny hands, so he impulsively kept pushing back his thick brown hair. Finally, he got the nerve up to ask young Rita if she would marry him. Without hesitation, she answered yes. Her mother was not thrilled when she was given the news. She liked the polite young man well enough, however, being a policeman didn’t pay very well, and at the same time, the city was dangerous.

But the young couple were determined to be together, and she relented. After a short engagement, they were married. They settled into their new life with the optimism reserved for the young. A year later, their first child, Sonya, was born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, December 12, 1974. Mike O’Leary’s patrol car blocked the entrance to the police station with the hood raised. It was 8:10 p.m. He and his partner, Aurèle Bourgeois, were trying to jump-start the vehicle. Their shift was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Aurèle sat in the car reviewing the day shift report. The two men shared a friendship built on a bond of trust, not unusual with police officers. A radio call can mean split-second decisions resulting in injury or death. Aurèle turned over the ignition while Mike jump-started the solenoid. He came around the front of the car laughing. Aurèle grinned, knowing something was up with his partner.

“Hey, I know that’s a good trick, bud, but I didn’t think it would make you laugh,” said Aurèle.

“In 19 days, this lad is going to be a corporal! Sarge told me I passed the exam.” Mike’s face beamed.

“Wow, that’s great news. You worked hard for it, Mike, congrats.” Aurèle jumped from the car and hugged his partner.

“I won’t be driving old clunkers like this one. And in 19 days, Angie and I move into that house we have been looking at. We are in for some good luck; I can feel it. Let’s get this rust bucket on the road. We will be off for a week after this shift. Time to get ready for the best Christmas!” Aurèle swung the car smoothly onto Main Street, humming his favourite Christmas carol.

“Why was the second shift kept on?” Aurèle wondered aloud.

“Yea, I don’t know, but after the Sergeant was talking to me, he and the Chief went into a huddle like something had them spooked,” responded Mike as much to himself as to his partner.

 

 

“I don’t remember seeing the Chief in the briefing room, after 6:00 p.m. since the Bank of Montreal robbery last year.”

Their conversation was cut short by an all-points bulletin. “All units be on the lookout for a 1968 to 1970 two-door Cadillac car with a light-beige body and a dark top, New Brunswick plate number Alpha, November, Whiskey, 315—possible Code 11. Use extreme caution. Subjects are armed. Stand by for further bulletins.” The two men looked at each other with concern.

“Well, bud, there goes hope for a quiet shift,” commented Aurèle as he stared into the dark December night.

*

The morning of December 13 was cold, and dampness had settled into the small apartment. Rita had been up during the night with their infant daughter, who was running a fever and had a worrisome cough. Rita glanced at the kitchen clock, 7:00 a.m. Reg was late getting off the night shift.

She had heard a lot of sirens the previous night, they’re probably raiding some bootleggers, she thought absently. A few minutes later, a car door closing announced Reg’s arrival. The pent-up stress in her shoulders began to melt. She put the kettle on the stove and set out his treat of molasses cookies and King Cole tea, his usual after shifts. Last night, Rita placed the matching teacups, saucers, and sugar bowl on the table. It was part of a six-piece setting her parents had given them as a wedding gift.

Before setting out the tea, Rita listened for the thud of Reg taking off his boots in the hallway closet. But instead, she heard his heavy steps as he hurried to the bathroom. She cocked her head to one side, listening as the tightness returned in her shoulders. Being the wife of a policeman was a challenging transition for Rita. The midnight shifts were the worst. There were few distractions, and Sonya usually slept. The silence was broken occasionally by sirens. Even worst still was when a shooting or big event caused the police scanner to buzz with activity, like last night. Reg didn’t want her to buy it, but it was her way of being close to him.

When he came into the kitchen, his face was ashen. He dropped heavily onto his chair, rubbing his face as if to erase a difficult event. "What’s goin’ on Reg?” Rita asked as she poured the tea. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I hope to Christ I haven’t.” he responded as he picked up his cup with a shaky hand. “It’s bad, Rita, as bad as it gets. A couple of low-life punks kidnapped the son of Abe Luckovich, the restaurant owner. Mike and Aurèle Bourgeois were out looking, but now nobody knows where they are." Mike and his wife Angie were part of a circle of friends made up mostly of policemen and spouses. Mike and Reg had worked together when Reg first joined the Force. The four men were well respected among the front-line crew and management.

“It’s a full call out. Lads from another shift are backing up the call sheet. They couldn’t reach Mike and Aurèle on the radio. When a crew member went to their last known location, the car was empty, and nobody was around. We think the dirtbags got them.” Standing with the teapot, Rita suddenly felt weak as she tried to take in what was happening.

Willing herself not to fall, she slumped into the nearest chair and looked across to her husband, his face contorted in anxiety. She sensed their quiet, predictable life was tumbling out of control and they were powerless to stop it.

She reached for Reg’s hand. The speed which he pulled back caught Rita off guard, leaving her momentarily confused and lost. “I’m okay; you don’t need to worry about me,” Reg said with determination, as much to himself as to his wife. “When we catch those sleazy bastards, we’ll string them up by their balls,” he said, gulping his cup of tea and putting his service cap and equipment back on. “The Chief says we need everybody on this one. Will you and the baby be okay, eh? I will call you later.” He picked up a package of Mackintosh cream toffee. Rita made sure one was always on the hall table. It was his stress reliever since he stopped smoking. The start of the police car’s heavy engine was followed by a trail of headlights that swept the wall. He was gone.

Rita turned on the radio to drown the silence and the worried voices in her head. At times like these, she felt adrift, alone. It was increasingly this way when something threatened their routine. It seemed Reg was trying to shelter her from its effects; instead, it left her feeling shut out, unable to be a full partner in her husband’s life. The shrill, metallic sound of the telephone pulled her from the dark void into which she was falling.

“Hi, Rita, it’s Angie.” Rita’s throat contracted, and she again felt light-headed. She struggled to find her voice. The result was a hoarse whisper.

“Hi Angie, how are you holding up?” she asked.

“I’m not doing well,” was the response. “The telephone’s been ringing steadily, and other wives are calling. I know most of them mean well, but Jesus, Rita, I don’t want to be talkin’ with a bunch of nosey crepe hangers.” Angie was from Newfoundland. She and Rita shared the same offbeat view of people and events. They bonded the first time they met.

“The Chief and his ass lickin’ lap dog Sergeant Fitzpatrick were here snooping around. Gawd, I can’t stand either of them. The Chief is sayin’ all that syrupy stuff about Mike. Last week, he was ready to can him when Mike spoke up about cops beating up the bums on St. George Street for no reason. And that Fitzpatrick pullin’ out the plastic evidence bag, lookin’ for the bathroom. Does he think I don’t know he was going to get hair samples from Mike’s hairbrush in case they find him dead?” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity. As much as she wanted to, Rita didn’t try to fill it. “He’s not dead, is he Rita?” Angie’s pleading voice was a whisper now. As her friend’s voice trailed off, Rita found the strength in her own. Over the years, this interdependence defined the two friends.

“Angie, you and I have been through a lot with our husbands. We know they are good men and good cops. We have to trust that Mike knows how to take care of himself and Aurèle is the same way. They are out there doing their job. When Sonya wakes and has breakfast, we will come over. You can try and beat me in a game of forty-fives. And I’ll be watching you, don’t cheat!”

Angie responded, her voice firming up. “Girl, you got to learn to play by Newfie rules. I can teach you,” she replied, cheered.

“We will be over in about an hour.”

Rita hung up the receiver with dread hanging over her, but it was outweighed by her determination to stick by her friend. When she went in to check on Sonya, the baby stood up in her crib, smiling. A hand on her forehead confirmed the fever had broken in the night. A wave of relief washed over the young mother as she gathered the baby in her arms. The joy was tempered with concern as she recalled the anxiety Angie was experiencing.

As she changed and bathed Sonya, her thoughts turned to Reg; where was he now? He would be obsessive in searching for his friend. She hoped he would not compromise his own safety in the hunt. What must he be feeling? The look on his face earlier had frightened her. A combination of resolve and fear she had not seen in him before. Why would he not talk about how he was feeling? When they were young, she found the tough, unwavering facade an attractive quality. But now they were married with a child. Their small apartment was cramped, and their limited budget was always stretched. These were thoughts and concerns they should be sharing, but from other situations, she had learned of Reg’s belief in the division of labour. His was his paid work. Hers was to keep house. The two worlds were not to mix. After breakfast, she bundled up Sonya securely, and they headed down the street to hold vigil with her friend.

 CHAPTER TWO

Radio silence had been ordered since the abandoned police car and Mike’s portable radio were found a mile north of the city. The fear was that the kidnappers had Bourgeois’ portable and could hear where the units were being directed.

Despite the ban, the radio chatter continued as officers followed up on dozens of public reports. Reg snatched the mic from its holder. “Jesus Christ, boys, stay off the radio. Those bastards are listening. Call if you have something; otherwise, contact Sarge on a landline.” The radio went silent. Reg was a young officer but respected and, in some cases, feared by all ranks. He and Morel had covered over two hundred miles since starting the double shift at eight that morning. He glanced at the dim numbers on the car clock to see it was nearly 1:00 a.m. December 15. He hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours, aside from the fitful naps he got in the break rooms. The adrenaline coursing through his veins would prevent more until they found Mike.

They used Morel’s car to avoid unnecessary attention. They had a portable radio and a cherry light in case they had to move fast. The rain and snow mix stopped; now a cold front had moved in, making driving treacherous. They pulled over to look at a city map. The cords on Reg’s neck felt like live wires as he chewed furiously on the toffee bar.

“You and Mike were good friends, eh Reg?” Morel attempted to ease the tension.

“What the fuck do you mean by saying, were?” Even in the muted light, Morel could see the lividity in his partner’s face. He considered getting out.

“I’m sorry, Reg. I wasn’t thinking straight.” A heavy silence crept between the two men. Several tense minutes slipped by in silence.

“Yea, Mike and I were wet behind the ears, rookies. We were sworn in the same day and were partners for a while. Man, that guy’s instincts were keen. He used his head where I, maybe, used my hands too much. Fuck, I did the same as you, talking like he is dead. He isn’t, he can’t be.”

Reg’s voice was lost in a hoarse whisper. He struggled to get out of the car, feeling it was crumbling around him. Try as he might, but he could not breathe. A sudden and violent weight was crushing his chest. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body. 

*

Rita and Sonya walked alone on the street, usually buzzing with morning traffic. Joyful Christmas music played from a small grocery store as they passed. Pretty lighted ornaments dazzled Sonya, who was snuggled warmly in her stroller.

She carried on a lively conversation with herself as they came up to Angie’s house. It was a modest two-story building in a quiet part of the city. Mike had worked hard to landscape the yard, and even in December, it stood out among others. Angie was a creative seamstress. Her handiwork was evident in the intricately designed curtains seen through the windows.

Angie opened the front door as Rita approached. “Hi! I was watching for you two,” she said excitedly. She scooped up Sonya, much to the delight of the baby, who was obviously comfortable with the routine. “How’s my little princess?” she asked as she rubbed her nose on her belly. This brought squeals of delight from Sonya. Angie and Mike were not able to have their own children and were awaiting word on an adoption application. She had raised several of her siblings after their mother died from cancer when Angie was fifteen. It was obvious to Rita, watching her dote on Sonya that she would be a wonderful mother.

“The fever broke overnight,” offered Rita. “The mustard plaster you made is a miracle cure. She stopped coughing an hour after you left.”

“Yea, I swear by it. Mom used it on all of us, even when we got older. Jesus, the smell!” They both laughed freely for a moment. “I put the tea on and have some of those molasses cookies you and Reg like.” Angie said as she placed Sonya on a thick blanket with toys she had bought. “And I took the phone off the hook. Sergeant Snaggle Puss said he would send a car over if anything happens.” Rita smothered a chuckle at the reference to Sergeant Fitzpatrick as she joined her friend on the couch.

“It looks like you’ve been cleaning," said Rita, pointing to the mop and pail in the corner with several rags.

“I went through the house twice, even the windows. Next thing, I probably will start scrubbing the sidewalk.” Angie replied as she filled their cups with hot King Cole tea.

“That’s better than watching the TV,” answered Rita. “They are really working hard. Reg came home for a few minutes and is staying on till they find him. I know Mike would be doing the same if it were him who was missing. They are two peas in a pod for sure.”

“Yes, they are. Remember that time they did over the upstairs bathroom? The cursing and swearing, mostly Reg of course.” The two women laughed fondly at the memory.

Angie’s face darkened. “I know he may be dead. We talked about the possibility. He took out a big insurance policy, so with the police pension, if he is gone, I will be okay. And you know Mike and his ‘prepare for anything’ motto? He planned and paid for his funeral. He asked Reg to do the eulogy. We were laughing, Father Dolan would have to warn Reg, no cursing.” Angie’s voice fell away as she gazed at Sonya, asleep with a stuffed toy.

“God, please don’t take him. I miss him so terribly. What would I have to live for?” Tears streamed freely from her dark eyes. Rita said nothing. But she held her friend firmly and quietly.

*

Reg sat on the frozen ground beside the car, struggling to breathe against the weight on his chest. His uniform was soaked with sweat. Morel crouched attentively beside him. “Here Reg, take deep breaths into this bag, slow deep breaths. Pretend you don’t smell the bologna sandwich my wife packed in my lunch. That’s it, slow and steady wins the race, deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.” Reg’s breathing slowed and became more regular.

“I don’t know what the hell came over me. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Christ, this can’t be happening now when Mike needs me.”

“I’m no doctor for sure, but I think you may be having a panic attack,” said Morel as he leaned heavily against the car door. “The first one I had; I was five years on the Force. A neighbourhood kid got run over by a drunk. Two months after, I was a mess with flashbacks, panic attacks, the works. Francine, my wife saw it all. When I came off shift one day, she and this nerdy guy were in our kitchen. He is a psychiatrist and they work together in the psych unit. I was super pissed with her. She told me how my crazy behaviour was freaking her out and scaring our baby girl. I think I bawled more that night than I did all my life. Anyways I agreed to talk with Ken. Reg, no shit, I don’t think I would have made it without that guy’s help. Francine, she stuck by me. It must have been so hard for her. I thought that I had to handle everything and show no emotion. That bullshit we men are told has messed up too many good guys.”

Reg’s breathing was more regular now, and he felt a chill creeping up his back from the frozen ground. He got up slowly. Morel reached down to help his partner up. Reg recoiled, pushing the arm away. “I’m okay, I don’t need help.” He leaned heavily on the car to steady himself. “Let’s run up to where this road meets the Old Line,” he said brusquely as he wiped the mud off his uniform. He walked quickly to the driver’s side and was already on the radio. Morel picked Reg’s cap off the ground, shaking his head; his partner had heard nothing of what he offered.

*

Sonya was awake, gazing at her mother and Angie with that cherub look reserved for infants. Rita lifted her child from the blanket and placed her gently in her friend’s arms. The transformation in Angie’s face was immediate and complete. Sonya raised her chubby arms in delight as her tiny fingers discovered Angie’s face.

“Angie, I know you are in a terrible place. I would do anything to push away the darkness if I could. This will sound crazy, but I wish Reg and I had the love you two have. You have stared the possibility of Mike’s death in the face together and he had the courage to plan for it.

I do love Reg, but we don’t have what you do. He shuts me out anytime crap is coming down the pipe. He thinks he has to protect me as if I am weaker than him because I am a woman. His dad was the same. I imagine it goes back generations. Angie, that’s not love, that’s wanting to control, and it’s eating us up. Jesus, what am I doing babbling on when I came here for you?” Rita looked over at Sonya and Angie, who always had that gift of bringing joy to the little girl. Angie smiled as though recalling a happier time.

“Mike’s dad was a kind and gentle man. He and Mike are the same. They listen more than talk. I do enough talkin’ for both of us.” She laughed, then turned away.

Angie shifted her weight on the couch and stared listlessly out the window. A figure appearing on the walkway shook her out of her stupor. She bolted for the door and tore it open. The man holding his plumbing tools took a step back in surprise.

“I got the part for the washer Mrs. O’Leary. Sorry I should have called ahead. I can come back when it’s more convenient.”

“Yes, that would work better. We will call you, thanks.” said Rita, who had slid between Angie and the door. The serviceman nodded and was gone.

Angie slipped back to her seat. “Thanks, Rita. That guy musta’ got a scare from my crazy lady look. Man, I am so wound up.”

“That’s nothing,” said Rita. “The same guy came to our place to unplug the toilet, last month. I was up half the night trying to open it, and Sonya was bawling like a cow left in the back field. I opened the door with a plunger in my hand. Never saw a man so afraid of a woman!” They broke into spontaneous belly laughs. Sonya, watching from her place, joined in with plenty of giggles. “Okay,” announced Rita; “Miss Sonya and I are parking our asses here for the night!” she paused, looking over at her friend. Angie’s response was to return her friend’s earlier deep hug. Nothing more was needed.

*

Reg was behind the wheel of Vince Morel’s car as it crept along the streets, now slick with ice. The wipers fought uselessly against the constant freezing rain. “There are too many things wrong here. It isn’t adding up. The Luckovich kid was kidnapped around 11p.m. Thursday. The family made the money drop at 3:45 a.m. Friday near the Riverview mall.

Our guys didn’t tap the line the kidnappers used to talk with Sarge and the Chief, so we had no units who could have picked them up. On top of that, nobody thought to tell the Mounties. They could have set up roadblocks going into Salisbury a few miles away. At least the kidnappers released the child, and we know he is safe, but nobody has a clue where the kidnappers disappeared to. I’m not liking this at all Vince. Now we hear two of our guys were wasting time tailing the Chief’s own car when they should have been looking for the kidnappers. Why was he out there and why did he not let anybody know? Was he trying to set this up so it would be his show? It’s a Keystone Cops episode and nobody is laughing.”

Morel, who had been silent after his partner’s collapse, now came to life. “Reg, what we know is Mike and Aurèle were tailing the kidnapper’s car after they dropped off the kid and picked up the ransom money. They called in. That was about 4:00 a.m. Friday. There has been no communication since then. With the kidnappers and our two guys missing, we can assume the two parties met. And we also have to assume that since Mike and Aurèle have not called back, they are still with the kidnappers. We don’t know what happened. Where would they have taken our lads with the ransom money? It can’t be far but Mike and Aurèle are extra baggage for them. I’m thinking it has to be in an area off a side road within a five-mile radius of where we are.” Morel turned the car on to Coverdale Road. He squinted to read the car’s clock. It read 5:45 a.m. Saturday. “We are going to search every side road and driveway through to Salisbury. I was raised not far from here and I know this area like the back of my hand. We won’t quit Reg, we can’t!” Reg began to look at his partner in a different light. The private battle he was fighting had an ally he could trust.