Читать книгу A Rare Find: Ethel Ayres Bullymore - Donna Mann - Страница 9

5. Watching Life Change

“You’d better make your way down to your quarters, ma’am.”

Ethel turned to face a cloud of mint-scented tobacco. A man with a wool peak cap set on a ridge of fuzzy short hair looked kindly at her. “It can get pushy down there. Some people get pretty nasty about protecting their space. Just claim yours and stay quiet. Hang on to it and you’ll be fine.”

He was right. Steerage, or third class as it was now called, would be a challenge, but it would have to wait. Ethel couldn’t bring herself to move. The wind played along the deck and wrapped around her skirt. At times, familiar strains of “Guide Me O Thou Great Jehovah” filtered from the large crowd singing from the dock and brought her a sense of well-being, even in the midst of grief. The ship jolted, and although she couldn’t feel any actual movement, the shudder told her the vessel had been set in motion.

A feeling of panic pulsed throughout her body. Looking into what seemed to be bottomless water, she thought of her life. In her frantic moments of facing the possibility of never seeing Elsie again, she identified with its dark, cold, unknown depth. Like a magnet drawn to steel, she dropped her gaze down into the dark water that reflected her worst fears. The time between now and seeing Elsie again would be the most difficult to live, and perhaps the most complicated to explain.

The majestic steamship soon began to slice through the water, unhurriedly at first and then changing to a smooth flowing motion as it followed the little tugboats. The floating sensation slowly carried Ethel away from the waving white handkerchiefs, balloons and signs. She clung tightly with one hand to the wooden rail that separated her from the deep and formidable waters of the harbour; the other hand clutched her waist, as if needing to feel the warmth of her body.

Moaning sounds from the ship’s foghorn joined with the chatter of voices interrupted her thoughts, and the moist channel air reached deep into her lungs. She turned her face toward the fog that looked like a protective quilt stretched across a clothesline, sealing off this part of her life. Tears burned, continually flooding her eyes and obscuring her sight as she strained to capture the fading view of the dock. She angrily wiped them away so they wouldn’t blur her vision—she wanted to catch every movement on the shore. Just knowing Horace was standing there in that massive crowd watching gave her a sense of peace, filling her with love. And even though she could no longer see their faces, the memory of Elsie sitting in her grandmother’s arm at their cottage door, waving a white handkerchief in unbroken rhythm, pretending to be standing on the dock, remained indelible in her mind.

In spite of the wind, passengers on the great deck shoved and pushed against her for a space to see the fast-fading Liverpool port diminish in size.

“Nothing more to see now, folks. Might as well go down,” one of the deckhands said.

“I might never see this again,” Ethel said. “I guess I’m trying to savour some memories.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” he said, pointing to the shoreline. “Those tall towers and buildings over there, they’re gonna fade from sight; the windows of those warehouses will dull until you can’t even see them; and all those layers of shaded roofs are just gonna look like miniature boxes. I’ve seen this change many times. Even those marshlands that border the River Mersey will turn grey when it widens out to join the open sea. Believe me, nothing special to see. Might as well go in. Gonna get cold when we get out a bit. Better git yourself on down.” The man nattered as if he’d said it a thousand times.

Gulls called as they dipped up and down from the waves, adding their squawking to Ethel’s silent cry. The imposing steamer, now on its own power, glided through the shimmering waters and continued to move away from her homeland.

Ethel pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shielding herself from the damp air. Thankful the porters had already taken her trunks below, she lifted two small satchels and made her way towards the big double doors, along with the remaining passengers. Having stayed up on the deck a little too long, she pushed and shoved her way down the stairs, determined to secure accommodations. It was not unheard of for a woman to travel alone, but Ethel, even with her confidence, was uncomfortable.

Proud that she’d been careful with her funds, she’d put aside six pounds to cover her passage, the five-dollar landing fee after she landed in Quebec and sufficient fare for her trip west. She knew her fare had a British Bonus Allowance applied to the total amount, but she couldn’t benefit from it until she was settled as an immigrant. However, waves of positive memories filled her as she remembered the refund she’d been able to add to her savings when she changed her accommodation down from second class. Although she would have rather had it used for its initial purpose, she added the reimbursement from the cancellation of Elsie’s ticket to her total funds. It’d be a while before she’d find work in Edmonton, and she would be careful with her finances.

Stepping carefully along the passageway, she followed people through a long common room. Children whined, and Ethel watched them grip their parents’ hands. Old people shuffled and pushed, some dropping their bags while others dragged theirs. She could surely help some of these people later.

Ethel saw a compartment with a small storage area and moved toward the bunk ahead of her. Looking around, she decided it wasn’t so bad, since the railing was high enough to give some privacy. She sat on the bottom bunk and after a few minutes opened her satchel and began to arrange her personal things in neat piles.

Her journal lay begging for attention. Maybe she’d write some things down that she could copy into a letter at another time.

The mattress isn’t much thicker than Mum’s back door mat. I guess a roll of what seems like a sheaf of cotton is my pillow. And a blanket not unlike what the neighbour would use on his horse is folded across the bottom of the cot. I think about fleas and lice and then I remember the ship’s new rules of disinfecting all cloth goods.

I’m pleased with my space. Everything is quite contained: wooden bunk bed, a little bit of floor space with room for personals, and a small aisle leads out to an area where passengers can cook food and heat water. There’s a toilet and basin in an adjoining alcove quite close to my area; even now, it seems crowded with people.

I can see a bigger open area, I guess for small groups for visiting, playing music and cards. And I suppose for teaching purposes if children want to do their sums. There’s a good supply of candles on a shelf, should the oil lamps burn dry. This space is not terribly pleasant, but liveable.

I read a sign that there is salted meat, water, bread, oatmeal and ship’s biscuits included with the fare. I suspect as time goes on, supplies will become meagre and stale. I remember hearing horror stories about steerage accommodation in the big steamers. Organization and security in these smaller quarters will be important. The stagnant air causes me some concern, but I’ll go up on deck to get relief.

One of Tom’s letters comes to my mind. He said, “Doctor Austin told me that my asthma was controllable. ‘Good clean air and a different environment will make you a new man.’” But Tom had mentioned that it was hard to find fresh air in steerage.

Ethel closed her journal for the time being, looked at her hair combs and creams and sorted some small pictures along with a few keepsakes. She opened her satchel again, checked some clothes and folded them. While unwrapping a small nativity scene, hand carved by her father, special memories came back to her. Tucking her mother’s geranium slips deeper into their moist paper and soil, she hoped they’d survive the journey.

Handling several pieces of jewellery that Mum had given her, Ethel was relieved she’d packed them. Sisters Mabel, Edith and Florence had appreciated the little things she’d given them, and of course, Mum had cried when Ethel left her some needlework.

Ethel lifted a picture of Elsie wearing a long white christening dress, a gift from Tom’s parents, her shawl and bonnet hand-knit by Mum. She brushed away tears that slipped down her cheeks. There’d be so much she’d miss in Elsie’s early years, but her christening day in St. Andrew’s, Church of England would be a cherished remembrance. She was happy she’d posted Tom a copy at the time.

Ethel re-opened her journal and smiled as she thought about her mother’s last embrace:

When Mum put her arms around me, it caused me to remember the happy, simple and honest home of my childhood. Pa, bless his heart, was a hard worker, changing jobs whenever he had to for a continuous paycheque. His attitude and polite nature helped us to thrive through difficult times. He provided the best he could and taught all of us to work hard to accomplish goals and achieve in life. He and Mum raised a big family in a loving and frugal environment: plain, but with everything we needed, including lots of encouragement and love. They grieved Will’s death together and always included us in their sorrow so we could share our sadness.

Later as Ethel settled on her cot, her gentle rhythm of breathing comforted her. She could feel the working motion of the ship, its pressured pace in obedience to engines somewhere beyond the walls. She felt strangely comforted by the regularity and movement. The consistent creaking of the ship’s hull echoed as it took the brunt of ocean waves. Rolling over, Ethel began to think of herself as in a large cradle rocking back and forth.

Sobs, giggles, snores and muffled sounds resonated through the larger space as people settled and filled the darkness of the first night. She ran her tongue across her top lip, tasting her salty tears, and thought of the vast ocean of salt water: her grief compared.

Ethel breathed deeply. “Goodnight, Elsie, my precious. Keep well. Stay safe. God be with you until we meet again.” When she woke up, she’d be miles closer to Canada. Yes, that’s the way it had to be—thoughts about Canada.