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incoherent. What she was trying to say was, “My God, my God, my God!”
    “I’m terribly sorry,” said the Mountie. “Can I get you a glass of water, a cup of tea, perhaps?”
    “No, no, I’ll be all right How did it happen? When? How did he die?”
    “He was found on a wharf in Saint John on the ninth of February. Exposure. He may have frozen to death.”
    “The ninth of February? That’s six weeks ago.”
    “Yes. He wasn’t carrying any identification. It took the Saint John police until yesterday to track things down.”
    “Is he buried yet?”
    “I’m afraid so, ma’am. You could have him exhumed and brought back here, if you wished.”
    “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I suppose he should’ve been buried in Gordon. Buck’s Catholic. But he never liked it around here much. He’s prob’ly happy where he is.”
    “He was buried in a public cemetery, ma’am, but we could arrange for a priest to sanctify the grave, if you wished.”
    “Yes, yes. Could you? And I’ll see the priest in Blackville about a Mass.”
    “Of course, ma’am.”
    “Thank you.”
    “There’s one more thing, ma’am.”
    “Yes?”
    “His belongings.”
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Ramsey had a room at 371 Collier Street in Saint John. There’s this envelope” – the constable handed Shirley an envelope – “and I’ve several items in the car.”
    “Yes, thank you very much.”
    Buck’s worldly possessions consisted of a guitar, a radio, a pocket watch that didn’t work and a hundred and sixty-three dollars and eighty-two cents in cash. The cash was in the envelope.
    After Constable Bastarache left, Shirley Ramsey cried a few solemn tears, but the twinge of fear she had felt was replaced with a flood of relief.
    *
    A week later Shirley Ramsey’s bill at Bernie Hanley’s store was paid in full. There was ten dollars worth of new stamps in the post office and Dryfly was being the Lone Ranger more often than not, with his shiny new cap gun.
    Shirley’s family allowance and post office cheque had arrived and she found herself sitting, for the moment, on the proverbial pig’s back.

three
    Shirley Ramsey, in a peculiar sort of way, was becoming famous. She was becoming a symbol of poverty, ugliness and untidiness for Brennen Siding, for all the Gordon Road area, and even mothers as far away as Blackville and Renous were telling their children, “You’d better get to school and learn, or you’ll grow up to be poorer than Shirley Ramsey!” Because of her few yellow teeth and straight unkempt hair, her neglected figure and ragged clothing, she was literally becoming a household word in the community.
    When Helen MacDonald was washing out the barrels she used for salting gaspereaux, she remarked, “Smells worse than Shirley Ramsey!”
    Bert Todder got drunk on rum one night and told Helen MacDonald that she was the prettiest woman in Brennen Siding. Helen promptly replied, “Git out with ya, ya drunken fool! I’m homelier than Shirley Ramsey!”
    Bert once described the antlers of a buck he’d shot. “’Pon me soul to God, they had sixteen points and were wider than . . . than . . . than Shirley Ramsey’s arse! Tee, hee, hee; sob, sniff, snort!”
    Dan Brennen drove all the way to Newcastle for a pair of boots for his son Charlie. When he entered the boot store, he realized he hadn’t asked Charlie his boot size. Dan muttered, “Bejesus, I’m getting stupider than Shirley Ramsey!”
    Shirley’s name was used in other ways as well. For instance, if Shirley had a tool shed (which she didn’t), it would have but two things in it, an axe and a dull rusty bucksaw.
    Besides the chopping and sawing of whatever stove wood the Ramseys could collect, the saw and the axe were also used for the execution of whatever repair jobs were needed to bedone. The outdoor toilet was built, for instance, with the saw and the axe. The porch over the door was also built with the saw and the axe, and so was the lean-to shed erected every