Old Broad Road

By Phyllis L Humby

Sylvia Kramer flees two thousand miles from home and switches out her Jimmy Choos for rubber boots. She stubbornly adapts to the unique culture and dialect of Newfoundland embracing diverse friends and east coast delicacies. In a psychological roller coaster of events, she finally reconciles with her estranged family when a brutal assault shatters her spirit and plunges her back into depression. Unorthodox coping mechanisms aid her recovery, but it will take more than out-of-body experiences and superstitious tattoos to heal the damage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crossfield Publishing
• Release date: May 23, 2022

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2269 Road 120, R7, St. Marys, Ontario, N4X 1C9, Canada

Copyright the author. All rights reserved. October 2020.

Copyright Crossfield Publishing. All Rights reserved.

ISBN 9781999177935 (Crossfield Publishing Inc.)

Printed and Bound in Canada.

Editor: David Pretty

Creative Director: Harald Kunze

Cover design: Brodie Williams

Crossfield is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. This is a work of fiction. The characters, scenes and situations are all drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Old broad road : a novel / Phyllis L. Humby.

Names: Humby, Phyllis L., author.

Identifiers: Canadiana 20200347683 | ISBN 9781999177935 (softcover)

Classification: LCC PS8615.U4445 O43 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

For Eileen

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Acknowledgements

Praise for Hazards of the Trade

About the Author

— Lao Tzu

New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.

One

Though the nights were still punishing, with every day that passed, an oppressive weight lifted and my mood lightened.

While touring the Irish Loop these past few weeks, I’d travelled this very road and sat on the rocks at the beach in Chapel’s Cove – salt water on my lips, the sun on my face, and the sound of lilting dialect drifting through open windows. Thus began my love affair with Newfoundland.

More interested in the scenery than the realtor’s running monologue, I twisted in my seat for a better view of the familiar landmarks. The rhythm of the windshield wipers and the whir of the tires against the wet asphalt lulled me into a composed but expectant frame of mind. Absorbed in every feature of the undisturbed country setting, I became more excited as we drew closer to our destination.

Ryan Howard prattled non-stop as we followed the curving roadway along the irregular shoreline to Chapel’s Cove from his office in Bay Roberts.

Yessir, born and raised right ’ere. Never give a thought to leavin’. Nosir. Lucky to be in the real estate. Always somethin’ happenin’, right? Mr. Howard turned to me as if making sure I was listening and then continued, Yessir, them trades boys ended up way the hell and gone to Fort McMurray, the most of them. ’Spose some settled in Ontario.

The realtor’s voice droned on in a steady litany while my mind continued in a whirl of reflection.

My husband – my ex-husband – was never far from my thoughts. We’d planned to take a family vacation to Newfoundland for the past few years but the time was never right. The brochures featuring the rugged coastline and colourful fishing shanties had me dreaming of whale watching with the grandchildren, feasting on fresh lobster, and snapping pictures of puffins. My dream holiday never materialized. Frankly, our vacations never turned out as planned. There was always bickering, tension, and hurt feelings − mostly mine.

This part of the country, two thousand miles from home, seemed like the perfect choice when I planned an escape. Although concerned for my welfare and state of mind, my son and daughter didn’t interfere when I booked my getaway. Now, God help me, I was planning more than a vacation.

Travelling the shoreline of the saltwater bay along the familiar Route 60, I was convinced now, more than ever, that this real estate listing on Old Broad Road was my salvation. Old Broad Road, indeed.

Mr. Howard’s vehicle lurched over the mud-packed ruts, and my hand gripped the door handle. We slowed to a stop, the ocean barely visible beyond the densely treed lot. Before he turned off the ignition, the muddy driveway was tugging at the soles of my shoes.

Let’s check the property first, I said, without a sideways glance at the empty house.

The smell of wet vegetation and seawater created a nervous flutter like butterflies batting against my ribcage. Despite the mounting apprehension, I felt an urgent need to explore. Not waiting for the agent, I hurried to the back of the yard. Seeing the salt-water bay, overlooked by jagged rocks, calmed me in spite of the exhilaration I felt.

The agent’s voice interrupted my thoughts. Miz Kramer? You’re not dressed for this damp marnin’. Let’s go in, now.

My stomach heaved with nerves. A fear of being sick in front of this stranger was a growing worry, but there was no turning back. Chapel’s Cove would be my retreat. My refuge. Despite the anticipated backlash of Dan and Darlene, I wasn’t going home to Toronto.

Yes, this is it. I’m sure, I nodded toward the view.

His eyes widened and he stepped towards me.

You haven’t seen the inside of the house. That’s where all the work is. ’Tis fairly isolated here and I don’t think you know what our winters are like. The representative’s strong east-coast accent made him difficult to understand. You’d be lonely as a gull on a rock livin’ ’ere. His considerable weight shifted from one foot to the other, his face wrinkling into a whine.

If I didn’t know better I’d say you didn’t want to make a sale this morning. My voice inflected a haughty tone – one I had perfected over the years.

Turning toward the abandoned house, I glanced down at my sodden canvas shoes, feeling the wetness soak through to my socks. The rain had stopped and I closed my eyes and inhaled. The smell of the damp earth aroused a childhood memory of shiny worms inching across a wet sidewalk. Recollections of my life before I became a wife and mother – and grandmother – were rare.

A cool, wet breeze dampened my hair, its mist settling into the deep lines around my teary eyes. I turned back to the magnificent view. During the weeks spent touring Canada’s east coast, I dreamed of living here, though never expected anything to come of it. Pretending was part of my healing process. Pretending to be alone in the world gave me solace. On the beach at night, screaming into the crashing waves, I raged against my fears. Nighttime was when I ranted and cried. That’s when I felt old and unhinged. The agent ended my wandering thoughts with an attention-getting grunt and a dubious look.

I plan on checking the house, Mr. Howard. Jangled nerves added a harsh edge to my tone.

Turning away from the crest of the craggy coastline, I looked up at the weathered frame edifice. Clinging to the back of the house was a wooden deck atop supports from the sloped landscape. Its stilt-like structure appeared to tremble with the strong breeze.

Water-drenched weeds tangled around my ankles like restraints to keep me from entering the house, which at a glance, looked old and unloved − much like the way I felt. The realtor appeared relieved when I moved towards the dwelling. Seeing the decaying bottom step of the raised deck, I changed direction and led the way to the front door.

Mr. Howard followed so closely behind me that I heard his ragged breathing, and smelled the lingering smoke on his clothes. As a reformed smoker, the smell was neither tempting nor revolting, but something my nose immediately identified. A smell that, one day, would signal danger.

Through the open screen door, the battered inside entry with its peeling paint, added to the general tired appearance. I was beginning to understand the realtor’s skepticism.

Two

The house key worked, but not without difficulty.

This won’t be too good, I don’t imagine, now. The good Lord only knows what we’ll be findin’.

The portly agent stepped aside and allowed me to enter the enclosed sun porch. My heart thumped with the realization of what I was doing and the finality of it. On my own for the first time and trembling with fright, I didn’t want anyone, least of all this agent, to think I was incompetent. I’d smile until my face hurt if that would make me appear at ease and in control of the situation.

Two mice skittered across the room when the screen door banged behind us. The salesman glanced sideways. I smiled and stepped over the splintered threshold of the screened porch. It would take more than mice to deter me.

The house was in a dilapidated state with faded wallpaper, pockmarked woodwork, and yellowed ceiling tiles. We turned down the hallway to our right and poked our heads into a small bathroom. Linoleum tiles curled around the base of a dingy toilet, the wooden seat and lid scarred and slightly askew.

The chipped enamel sink had a single tap and an empty chain hanging from the spout. Rust trailed to the drain like dried blood from an open wound. A curtain drooped over the opening of the small shower and I nudged it aside. Long-legged spiders danced around the webbed drain of the mildew-stained enclosure.

The paint on the tongue and groove bottom portion of the wall had faded and hideous brown and yellow wallpaper partially covered the top half of the room.

You must be saving the best for last, Mr. Howard. My chuckle ended in a choked cough.

I don’t believe there is a best in this forsaken place. We can leave whenever you like, now.

At the end of the hallway there was a small room with peeling wallpaper. It may have been a bedroom, although there were no built-in closets or cupboards. The realtor watched me as if looking for disapproval, but I did my best not to show emotion. I had already determined this would be my home.

A few shallow breaths enabled me to retreat up the hall past the threshold of the sun porch. I entered a room that stretched toward a large window that had smaller, sliding panes with screens along the bottom of it. The warped panelling on the walls created a wavy effect.

Soot from the wood stove speckled the ash-scarred floor, while the sickening smell of creosote and disuse tormented my nostrils. At this point, a bulldozer seemed like the best idea. Then I entered the next room.

Past the stairs in the living room a doorway off to the right revealed the kitchen. Something about the large square room captured my imagination. Not even the diaper in the garbage pail affected my enthusiasm. Nor did the prevalent smell of grease, or the dangling wire in the centre of the ceiling with a single bulb attached.

Mr. Howard didn’t follow me into the room but watched from the doorway while I scanned the dreary space. My unexpected excitement overshadowed the encrusted dirt on the floor where the refrigerator once stood, as well as the four-burner stove littered with mice offerings that was jammed between the plywood cupboards. It was crazy but the potential for this kitchen thrilled me.

I’m sure you didn’t expect anything this bad, the realtor said, casting a sidelong glance that suggested I might bolt at any moment.

I shrugged and headed for the narrow stairs situated along the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. My damp rubber soles squeaked across the wooden floor until I was standing at the bottom of an enclosed staircase. I reached for the two by four handrail and took my time climbing the steep ascent until the dust covered plank floor came into view. After a few more steps the airless atmosphere of the upper floor sucked the breath out of me. A narrow hallway led to four tiny bedrooms and an unfinished framed-in storage area. Dirty windows allowed little light to enter. There was nothing to see, not even closets, but already an idea tugged the corner of my mouth into a wannabe grin.

Cautious on the shallow steps, I turned partially sideways to descend to the main floor. I wandered back through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing to peer through the discoloured lace curtain on the rear door. It was lucky that I hadn’t chanced walking on the deteriorating surface of the deck. Although my gaze fixed on a rotted board, my mind flashed back to an elaborately-furnished patio, brick barbeque, and manicured lawn. I closed my eyes, shutting out the memory.

Back in the living room, the unwashed window allowed a filtered view of the cliffside that had caught my breath moments earlier: copse of trees, rugged round boulders, jagged rocks, and ocean. I could hear it now. Or could I? I caught a glimpse of a pathway leading down the embankment.

Ryan Howard interrupted my musings. His restless hands toyed with the loose change in his pockets, suggesting a growing impatience. Perhaps he needed a smoke. His tuneless whistling annoyed me.

Sorry to hold you up. It’s a lot to take in all at once. I may be moving slowly but a decision like this ...

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and we returned to the sun porch. At the front door I shuffled my feet to warn all the little critters to start packing. It was a relief to breathe in fresh air.

The front yard was shaded with maple and white birch, and scattered throughout were larch trees. Their needles, together with the mulch of fallen leaves from previous years, formed a soft bed. The flat terrain was no comparison for the view from the back door but it was pleasing just the same. It was easy to picture a profusion of flowers blooming around the base of the trees.

Well, Mr. Howard, you were right. This place is a dump.

Oh, now, I never said such a thing. His blustering reaction to my teasing amused me. It’s a fixer-upper. A family could come in here and get quite a bit accomplished in a year or so, if they made an effort.

I counted to ten before I spoke. So because I’m alone you don’t think this is the place for me?

He gave me a suspicious look that became stern as his thick fair brows descended and his eyes disappeared into full cheeks. We stood facing each other like adversaries about to do battle.

You don’t want this place. There’s a house next door that’s empty, too. He turned, his chin pointing to the dense border. Someday both these places will be torn down and cabins put up here. Yessir, good spot for cabins.

He gave a jovial nod, turned his back, and headed for the truck. I called after him, my hands fisted at my sides. Mr. Howard, I’ve decided to buy this property. The opportunity is too good to pass up and I know I can restore this house. The maintenance on these two acres is not formidable.

With an abrupt stop, he jerked his body around to face me.

Even for an old woman living alone, I added.

My jaw pulsed with furious resolve and seeing the flush rise in his already blushing cheeks, I stood erect, determined not to look as scared as I felt.

I’m in good physical shape, Mr. Howard, with energy to spare. I hoped my enthusiasm would convince the both of us.

Jumpin’ Jaysus, woman. If you wants it, it’s yours. His accent had become even more pronounced and he gesticulated wildly. We’ll have to write it up and see about financing since you’re a woman on your own and everything. But I don’t know why y’ed wants to live out here all alone.

He dismissed the idea with the wave of his arm and then his bushy brows raised another thought. This is quite a chunk of money for this property. Does your family know about this? Is there someone you would like to bring out to see the place? Maybe give you some advice?

A grey-blond lock of hair drooped down on his forehead. The genuine look of concern on his full, round face deflated my mounting hostility towards this old-fashioned chauvinist.

This time I was the one to walk away. The financing, as you call it, will be a certified cheque. I’ll use their lawyer. It will speed things up since I don’t have one here. As far as the paperwork, make sure the title’s clear, and secure a copy of the latest land survey. Someone spent a lot of money here at one time getting the property serviced.

Yeah, well, it was two brothers, see. That’s why these two houses are out here. One feller died and the other one lost his wife then totally lost interest. It was rented out a few times but nobody kept up the rent. The agent huffed along behind me as he tried to keep pace with my long strides. The family figured it would just get taken over by vagrants if they didn’t sell it. Actually, he lowered his voice to a confidential tone when he caught up with me, rumour has it that somebody might be interested in the other place. Somebody from the States.

Raising his voice to a conversational level he continued, Americans will soon own the lot of us. No doubt it will get torn down and like I said, a few fancy cabins will go up.

He stared out at the dense bank of trees as if imagining the smoke curling out of the chimneys. Still quite red in the face, he continued in his rapid Newfoundland dialect, even though I was too busy making plans to listen.

Mr. Howard headed to his vehicle but I walked back to the cliffside, feeling thrilled, but nervous, at my decision.

After the last lingering doubt vanished, I walked back toward the vehicle and took a deep breath of the moist sea air pausing to admire the wild landscape. When I climbed into the SUV, the agent gave a slight shake of his head and flicked the truck gear into reverse. He slowly backed out of the driveway and onto the soon-to-be familiar, rutted road.

As we drove away, I turned for another look. Certain I would find peace on these two acres, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the moment. My survival depended on that rundown property.

Three

My nose wrinkled with the smell of dampness when I entered my motel room. I fiddled with the dial on the wall-mounted heater until the fan started blowing warm air. A rainy afternoon in late July. Living in Newfoundland would mean shorter summers and longer winters. Flaring arthritis and stiff joints. I suppressed a smile. Maybe the realtor was right thinking I was a crazy old woman.

I bent over, removed my soggy sneakers, and wiggled my toes before peeling off my discoloured socks to let them dry beside my shoes.

On the drive back from Chapel’s Cove, I’d looked forward to a hot bath but felt in worse need of a nap. The implication of my actions emotionally drained me. Unsure of the repercussions of my decision, I dreaded making the calls to my son and daughter. My family expected me to return home to Ontario. I wasn’t. I was tempted to toss away my cell phone and change my name. That would be easier than facing them.

I retrieved a pair of woolly socks from the dresser, pulled them on and turned down the covers of the bed. Despite being fully dressed, I felt chilled. Once I was snuggled under the blankets, I re-lived every moment of the day’s events.

Ryan Howard and I had chatted amiably during our half hour drive back to Bay Roberts. He was surprised to learn that I’d experienced many of the hiking trails while touring the region over the past few weeks. Perhaps the fact that I loved being active would convince him that I was capable of the work involved in resurrecting that old place.

As we were driving past the Chapel’s Cove Ridge Cemetery, I mentioned an interest in researching the ancient headstones. Encouraged by my comment, he proudly recounted the local history. He warmed to the subject as he related the tale of the Irish rogues who settled here in the 18th century, preceded by the warring French and English. My expressing an interest in local history may have softened his attitude towards me.

My wife, Gwynnie, be the one to talk to. Turning to face me he warned, Mind ‘er though. Talk the ear off ye. She’ll get ye to volunteer at somethin’. He snorted affably.

When speaking of his wife, Mr. Howard’s countenance transformed the stubborn expression he wore during our dealings at the house to a contrasting smile. There was no indication of the flash of temper displayed earlier. Finally enjoying his company, I took pleasure in the drive and the history lesson that began in the 17th century.

According to Mr. Howard’s account, Harbour Main, Chapel’s Cove, and Lakeview were three communities that amalgamated in 1965, while maintaining their individual names. He boasted that the population was over a thousand people now. I silently added a one to that number.

Yawning, I burrowed contentedly under the covers. Old Broad Road in Chapel’s Cove, I mused. It had a certain ring to it. My soft snoring barely brought me to the surface of consciousness before I sank into a deep sleep.

The room was hot. I awoke suddenly and felt disoriented in the pitch black. When my head cleared, I slid the covers off and away from me and tugged at my socks, dropping them over the side of the bed. Rolling over, I scrunched my pillow out of the way and reached for my cell phone. It took a few seconds for my blurry eyes to focus. 3 a.m. Other than a disjointed dream, I’d slept soundly for almost twelve hours. It was a luxury not often experienced since the onset of menopause. My sleep was usually interrupted every four hours or so.

Bad dreams contributed to the sleepless nights. The nightmarish scene crouched in my conscious – the image flashing in my memory. I walk to the top of the stairs, reach out my hand to the doorknob, and enter the room...at that point I always woke. It’s all that saved me from screaming out.

I rubbed my eyes, shifted and stretched, pointing my bare feet to the end of the bed. Thoughts of my realty appointment in Chapel’s Cove crept into the spotlight and panic threatened. Slow, even breaths helped me focus on the positives: the visual and spiritual pull of the property at Old Broad Road.

It felt strange, but oddly satisfying, to plan a future for myself. The idea of people going away to find themselves had always seemed ridiculous to me. I didn’t understand it. Until now.

My role in life had never seemed a mystery. I was the wife of Paul Kramer. Paul, though confident and charismatic, felt awkward without me by his side at tedious, but necessary, social events in the city. My successful husband, owner of the most prestigious realty firm in Toronto, could always count on my loyal support. Perhaps he loved me for that. I needed to believe he loved me. I’d been Paul’s companion and mother of his children, but, as it turned out, never his confidante. Emotion stoked the swell of nausea that came over me whenever I thought of this.

My thoughts scrambled for the calming image of the ocean and I imagined waking to the sound of the waves. A sense of tranquility filled me from the inside out. It was a good feeling and my anxiety ebbed. I rubbed the last traces of sleep from my face, smoothed my hair, and turned on the lamp. It occurred to me that it was the middle of the night and I considered my options before deciding to undress and take a shower.

As is often the case when I rise directly from a sound sleep, my stiff ankle joints caused me to walk with a rigid, unbalanced gait. Another reminder that I had no time to waste.

The hot water pulsating against my shoulders and back felt almost as good as the twelve-hour nap. When the room filled with steam, I turned off the tap and stepped into a fresh smelling towel, noting that towels don’t cover as much of me as they once did. Even though I’d lost a considerable amount of weight since that fateful day, the hearty fare of the Newfoundlanders was quickly replacing the pounds.

While the coffee brewed I pulled on fleece pants and a cotton sweater. My selection of travel clothes suited this cool, wet Newfoundland summer.

The motel coffee shop wouldn’t open for two hours so I rummaged through my bag for a breakfast bar or some peanuts. It wasn’t surprising that I was hungry since my last meal had been breakfast the previous day. While the coffee gurgled and spit into the waiting pot, I searched the closet for a warm jacket. Goosebumps rose on my arms and there was a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that didn’t relate to hunger. I zipped up my jacket and poured a cup of heavenly aroma.

Armed with my notepad, pen, and a black coffee, I eased out the door and settled into the plastic chair in front of my room. At the sight of a falling star, I squeezed my eyes shut and made the mother of all wishes. Trembling with excitement, apprehension, and the chill of the pre-dawn air, I gazed at the star-filled sky. My mind never stopped planning. Soon it would be light enough to write my list and outline my intentions for the property. In the meantime, I hugged the mug of hot brew and breathed in the sea air.

Later, stretched out on the bed eyeing the drained coffee pot, my stomach growled. I was starved. I gathered my notes and marched across the parking lot to the restaurant. The daily special clipped to the front of the menu was another reminder that I was no longer in Toronto.

Good morning, and what would you have, my darling? A close friend could not have given me a warmer greeting.

I’ll have your special, please. Fried bologna and eggs. I returned her smile, feeling smug about my decision to become an islander.

Changes in my life during the past year had resulted in frightening panic attacks and a perpetual feeling of bewilderment. But now, being convinced that a fresh start would make them go away, filled me with hope.

When the waitress left my table, I wondered if I seemed different to her. Yesterday morning I felt anxious. I’d been nervous about meeting the real estate agent and worried what he might think of my plan to settle in a remote area. Today I must appear content. No, happy. No, that’s not it. Perhaps, bubbly. How about ecstatic? Aware of my broad smile, I adjusted it to a cocky grin. My tension was gone. I was acting foolish and didn’t care.

When I’d finished my leisurely breakfast, I mindlessly accepted the offer of yet another cup of coffee and continued going over my notes and plotting my course.

I was dizzy with excitement, or maybe it was the caffeine, when I returned to my room to begin making calls. My mind was a jumble of ideas and plans as I flipped through the directory to the car dealership listings. Acknowledging the comfort and competency of my rental vehicle, I narrowed my search to Jeep dealerships. Besides, I’d need a four-wheel drive to handle the rough back roads of my new neighbourhood.

Without a computer, I had no choice but to begin another search through the Yellow Pages. I jotted down the phone numbers of renovators and builders, and then began to tidy my room, but realized I was only putting off the inevitable. The gnawing ache of guilt couldn’t be ignored any longer. I stopped fidgeting. My bag lay tossed on the chair and I reached inside for my cell phone.

Happy with the turn of events in Newfoundland, yet fearful that I was acting irrationally, my