The Inevitability of Nina
Saint Paul's River, Quebec
Dear Nina,
My first visit to Saint Paul’s River was in July 1972, as an eighteen-year-old trainee store manager with the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) and a new immigrant. When I arrived in Canada, I spent the first five days in Montreal at the HBC’s Northern Stores Department headquarters, preparing for my new life in the north, signing paperwork, and undergoing medical and dental exams. The journey from Montreal to Saint Paul’s River began in a large jet to Sept-Isles, followed by a twin-turboprop to Havre Saint-Pierre. Finally, after five hours in a single-engine De Havilland Otter on floats, flying along the North Shore of the Saint Lawrence River and stopping at each small community to drop off passengers, mail, and other essentials, I reached Saint Paul’s River, the final stop, as the last passenger.
Founded in London in 1670 as a fur-trading enterprise, the Hudson’s Bay Company recruited men in Britain until the 1980s, initially from southern England and later from Scotland, including the Orkney Islands, where life was harsh and opportunities scarce. The men were accustomed to isolation, making them ideal candidates for life in northern Canada. The HBC offered employment and adventure. I was drawn to both, but mainly to the latter. When I was interviewed in Glasgow for the position, two questions stood out: "When was the last time you went to the movies?" and "When was the last time you went dancing?" Having previously served at sea with the British Merchant Navy and, earlier, for a short time in the Royal Navy, I honestly answered that it had been a long time. My service contract with the HBC was for two years.
My monthly salary was about $175 Canadian, before my airfare from Scotland was deducted, plus room and board. It was four times what I earned in the Merchant Navy, but I would have worked for free because, as I mentioned, I was seeking adventure, not financial gain. My attitude toward either hasn’t changed much since then. Because I’d be living in shared company housing, another stipulation in the contract was that I wouldn’t sleep with Native girls or get married for two years. Since the population of Saint Paul’s River was mainly Irish and Welsh, sleeping with Native girls was not an option. Fishing, primarily for cod, had been the main source of employment on the North Shore, including Saint Paul’s River. But overfishing had reduced yields, and unemployment had increased. So here I was, a new migrant with a job in a community with high unemployment. Sound familiar?
Watching the float plane take off after dropping me at the dock, clutching my little Royal Navy suitcase, was one of the loneliest moments I had ever experienced. When I turned around, it seemed the entire population of Saint Paul’s River was staring at me, and loneliness turned to terror. Luckily, that feeling didn’t last long. Soon, I was making new friends and relishing new experiences. Saint Paul’s River is about 40 miles south of the Labrador border. There was no road linking the two at the time, so it felt quite isolated. Travel was by sea or float plane. The Hudson’s Bay Company store was the only place to buy food and supplies, all of which were brought in by boat from the south once a week. I arrived in July. It was hot. School was out, so the young people swam each day, and I joined them. The mosquitoes were furious.
My initiation as a Hudson’s Bay clerk included stocking shelves and operating the cash register, both essential skills for a store manager-in-training. Another employee, a young guy about my age, took a dislike to me. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I was a foreigner with one of the better jobs in town, one, theoretically, with prospects. Little did he know I wasn’t here because I was attracted to those prospects. The Hudson’s Bay Company was a means to an end. The job allowed me to emigrate to Canada without any skills or a high school diploma. I’m not proud of that; it is what it is. Also, times were different then, especially because I was a British citizen and Canada was a member of the Commonwealth, so access was less restrictive than it is now.
There was an altercation with the young guy who disliked me. The memory is fuzzy, but it went something like this: he pushed the swinging door separating the stockroom from the store into me. I pushed back, and he fell. I thought that was the end of it. A short while later, I was serving a customer at the cash register. He leaned across the counter and grabbed my shirt with both hands. I jumped over the counter and pushed him against a shelf stocked with canned goods and other items. In the meantime, the groceries belonging to the customer I was serving ended up on the floor. As I pushed the young guy, the shelf toppled, and when it hit the next shelf, that one toppled as well. As we were tussling on the floor, the store manager, who also didn’t like me much, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and yelled, “I’m gonna kick your ass back to Scotland.” A couple of days later, I was on the ship heading back down the North Shore. As I reminisce about that experience, I often wonder who was at fault. It was over fifty years ago, and it was the last time I’d been violent towards anyone. I do not seek violence; therefore, from my perspective, it was the other guy’s fault. However, from his perspective, a foreigner with a job and career prospects was a source of insecurity.
Returning to Saint Paul’s River fifty-four years later to stage a dead photo and write you a letter, Nina, was another adventure. I flew into Saint John’s, Newfoundland, rented a car, and drove 10 hours across the island to St. Barbe, where I took a car ferry to the mainland of Canada at Blanc Sablon, on the Quebec-Labrador border. A road now connects Blanc Sablon and Saint Paul’s, but it wasn’t there when I left in 1972. I chose to take the naked, pretending I was dead, photo in the only sheltered spot I could find against the freezing wind. The moss was wet, and my feet almost froze as I ran back and forth between my camera to release the shutter and the location of my staged dead pose. But I got the shot. I packed up the next day and headed back to Denver. This story captures my transition to North America and a step closer to the inevitable meeting with you, sparked by the discovery of your photographs.
Love, Roddy