Читать книгу Wildwood - Elinor Florence - Страница 11

August

Six hours later the sun was sinking, and so was I. The groceries were safely stored in the icebox and the pantry. Before scouring the kitchen, I wrapped a towel around my broom and swept the ceiling and walls. Dirt fell onto every surface including my head and shoulders. Obviously I had never fully appreciated owning a vacuum cleaner before.

After changing my clothes once again, I spread a clean tablecloth over the table, and Bridget picked an armful of purple wildflowers from the edge of the yard -- Old Joe had called them "fireweed" -- and arranged them in a pitcher.

A green painted washstand stood in the corner. Above it was a small wall cabinet with a mirror, where I found a tin of something called tooth powder, a shaving mug lined with hardened soap, and a straight razor. My great-aunt must have been a hoarder, since she apparently never threw anything away. Sitting on the washstand was a bowl and pitcher set, white porcelain with a green stripe.

This was a far cry from our gleaming marble bathroom. I poured warm water from the kettle into the bowl and Bridget and I scrubbed our hands and arms as thoroughly as if we were doctors preparing for surgery.

“I like washing in this bowl, Mama, but there’s no hole in the bottom. How do we make the dirty water go away?”

“Carry it over to the back door and pour it onto the grass.”

Carefully balancing the heavy bowl, she went through the back kitchen and poured the water onto the shrub beside the back steps. “I’m giving this bush a drink of water. I hope it likes the taste of soap.”

“I’m sure it won’t mind. Plants get thirsty, too.” It was the first time in her life, and probably mine as well, that we had recycled our dirty water.

Bridget set the table with her usual precision, selecting two china plates from the glass-fronted cabinet and rotating them so the flower patterns faced in the same direction. They were pretty things decorated with floral bouquets, edged with a blue stripe. I flipped over a plate to find the pattern: “Old English,” by Johnson Brothers.

While Bridget washed two knives and two forks, I scrambled eggs in a cast-iron frying pan and toasted rye bread over the surface of the stove with an old toasting iron — two pieces of screened mesh held together by a pair of wire handles.

For once, she ate everything.

“Boy, I was hungry!” she said as she wiped her plate with a crust of toast.

I poured boiling water into the teapot, reflecting that it was handy to keep a kettle simmering on the stove. The strong tea was delicious with a dash of evaporated milk.

As the sun fell lower on the horizon, we searched the dining room sideboard and found an assortment of candlesticks made from wood, tarnished silver, and porcelain. Bridget carefully stuck white tapers into two of them, and I lit them with a wooden safety match. The room looked friendlier in the candlelight, and somehow cleaner, although I knew that was just an illusion.

I carried both candles carefully as we trooped up the dark staircase. Might as well save my flashlight batteries. Our shadows followed us as we climbed.

When we entered the bedroom, I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t have spent all afternoon cleaning the kitchen. Even in the candlelight it was obvious that everything was coated with a thick layer of dust. A wave of revulsion swept over me, and I briefly thought about trying to sleep in the truck.

Fortunately, there was a sheet covering the bed, so I delicately folded the four corners together and lifted it off. The striped mattress underneath looked clean. Bridget sat in the centre with Fizzy while I went downstairs and fetched a pail of soapy water.

When I climbed back up the stairs, I noticed two sets of footprints on the stair treads, one large and one small. Grimly, I remembered the hours I had spent picking tiny specks of lint from the white carpet back in Phoenix.

Upstairs I wiped the rails of the brass bed so dust wouldn’t fall into our faces while we slept. The water was muddy by the time I finished. Bridget changed into her pajamas while I explored the linen closet in the hall. Thankfully the heavy fir door fit tightly in its frame, and the feather pillows and bedding inside were spotless. I pulled out a set of beautiful thick cotton sheets and pillowcases, monogrammed MMB in dark-green embroidery thread, and made the bed with two patchwork quilts and a blue satin duvet.

I pulled a pair of clean socks over Bridget’s dirty feet. She crawled between the sheets, and Fizzy went with her. I wasn’t fond of the idea of sleeping with an animal, but I squashed my distaste and allowed him to snuggle into her arms, where he started to purr. Johnny Wrinkle had been carefully laid to rest in a dresser drawer, put aside in favour of this fascinating new toy.

It was still light in the room. The sky was a deep shade of salmon, scattered with early stars like a field of white daisies. I didn’t dare touch the curtains, fearing a shower of dirt, but I opened the window slightly, dislodging a tangle of spider webs dotted with dead flies. The sweet-smelling evening air flowed into the room, along with a musical chorus of croaking frogs from the creek.

“Mama, I’m glad you don’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

“You won’t go away again?”

“No, my darling. It will be just the two of us for a long time.”

“You forgot Fizzy. That makes three of us.”

I spread another clean sheet over the black Windsor chair before sitting down beside the bed, and I sang the same song I had been singing all her life, one of the remnants of my own childhood. “‘Toora, loora, loora,’ that’s an Irish lullaby.”

“Mama.” Bridget’s voice was drowsy.

“Yes, honey?”

“I feel like somebody is watching us. Do you think this house is haunted?”

“If there are any ghosts around here, they’re friendly ghosts, watching over you and keeping you safe.” Somehow it felt like the truth. I kissed her cheek, then we rubbed noses — our trademark goodnight.

I sat there until she fell asleep. It occurred to me that I hadn’t done this for a long time, not since she was a tiny baby, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the miracle of her existence.

It didn’t surprise me that mothers were overprotective. People hired bodyguards and security systems to protect their treasures, yet they allowed their children, the most valuable treasure of all, to leave their control, vulnerable and defenceless.

In fact, it surprised me that mothers let their children out of their sight. But that was the real victory of motherhood: allowing children to ride in vehicles, to sit in classrooms with strangers, to cross streets and play games and contract illnesses from other children, and to put themselves in harm’s way repeatedly. And yet their mothers, with enormous effort, made the supreme sacrifice and allowed them to do it.

And those were “normal” children.

I gazed lovingly at my daughter’s flawless skin, the dark eyelashes on her pale cheeks, the perfectly cut lips. Four years and five months ago this precious creature hadn’t even been born. I deeply regretted having missed so much of her short life already. No matter what happened next, at least we would be together.

Finally, I rose and went to the window. It was three minutes past nine. The sun still glowed from behind the horizon, as if reluctant to leave. I could see the lazy curve of the creek, the water reflecting the fading light like liquid gold.

My candle cast shadows into the corners as I went down the magnificent staircase and into the living room. The house was dead silent now, as if even the birds outside were asleep. I reflected that this must be what it felt like to be deaf. I had never contemplated how much sound was generated by the humming of refrigerators and computers and furnaces and air conditioners, not to mention telephones.

The Oriental carpet muffled my footsteps. The brown velvet couch, still covered with a sheet, faced the stone fireplace while two Morris chairs with slatted backs sat on either side. A pipe rack hung on the wall, still bearing my great-uncle’s pipes and giving off the faint fragrance of tobacco. The smell reminded me of my father.

I squatted before the low bookcase on the left side of the fireplace, opened the glass door, and held my candle close to the rows of hardcover books. There were no brightly coloured jackets here. The covers were dark blue and green, brown and black, with the titles printed on their spines.

These shelves were filled with books of a masculine nature. There were dozens of books by Zane Grey. White Fang, by Jack London. Kim, by Rudyard Kipling. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott. Songs of a Sourdough, by Robert W. Service. I pulled out the last one, opened the flyleaf and read the inscription: “To George, 1934. Merry Christmas With Deepest Affection From Mary Margaret.” I recognized the same stylish handwriting, with curly capital Ms that I had seen on the codicil to her will.

Moving to the bookcase on the right side of the fireplace, I found books more to a woman’s taste: The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck. Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen. Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. The Yearling, by Marjorie Kinan Rawlings. The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. Here was a row of books with matching pale-green spines, a series called Whiteoaks of Jalna, by Mazo de la Roche.

At the far side of the bottom shelf, I spotted a slender, unmarked volume covered with heavy, black-textured cloth. I drew it out and opened the first page. The paper was cream-coloured with blue lines, filled with my great-aunt’s ornate handwriting in black ink. Gently I moved aside a few fragile dried flowers that carried the faint odour of wild roses and began to read.

August 6, 1924

We are in our new home at last, and it is simply heaven to tread on carpet once again. Our wee log cabin will always be dear to me, as it is where we enjoyed the first happy weeks of our wedded life, but I am secretly relieved not to be spending the winter there. George claims it would have been quite snug once the cracks were chinked with mud, and snow banked up around the foundation, but I remain doubtful!

George built the cabin himself in 1919, the first structure on his new homestead. He is a very accomplished man, exactly the sort of husband one desires. He also constructed a log barn for the livestock, but then, since it was necessary to turn his attention to clearing the land, little else was done in the way of accommodation.

When we left Juniper, I felt so eager to begin my new life that I wanted the horses to gallop, yet I quailed when I first caught sight of this humble abode, and it was all I could do to force a smile to my lips. My husband, ever sensitive to my mood, handed me a catalogue and bade me choose my new home from a Canadian company called the T. Eaton Company Limited.

The price of $1,577 seems tremendous, but George received a small inheritance from his uncle that paid for it entirely. We are very fortunate, for settlers who bring money from the outside have a “leg up,” although even those with funds may fail to thrive unless they are careful managers.

Within weeks the entire house arrived in pieces at the station in Juniper. The railway reached the town in 1916, but only after a mighty battle with the wilderness. The tracks stagger drunkenly around the landscape, and when they pass over muskeg one can see the cars rising and sinking in a most alarming fashion.

From the station, the materials were brought here on seven wagons pulled by oxen. The wagoners unloaded a great quantity of milled lumber (almost unheard of in these parts, where there is as yet no sawmill), glass-paned windows, shingles, and everything down to the last nail: all arrived as promised. T. Eaton offers a one-dollar rebate for every knothole, so I inspected the lumber diligently in hopes of catching them out, but eventually waved the white flag as the boards are as flawless as satin.

Our home is the Eastbourne model, one that will last several lifetimes. I feel blessed to have such a grand house and made only two changes to the original plan — the addition of a spacious back kitchen, and the elimination of one dividing wall upstairs to create a double-sized main bedroom.

We even have a separate bathroom although the water must be carried up and down the stairs. Unfortunately, plumbing and pioneering are at the opposite ends of the spectrum! At least we don’t have to haul water from the creek like some poor souls. We have our own well water, and both colour and taste are excellent.

George ordered a double brass bed and a chest of drawers from Edmonton, along with a table and four chairs. How I appreciate sitting in a chair, after the stumps we used in the cabin, and sleeping on a real mattress after the contraption that George strapped together from poplar poles!

Happily, my “settler’s effects” arrived as the house was being finished. Ma made short work of shipping my books and china, as well as my Oriental carpet and my dressing table, and we will add to these furnishings as our purse allows.

My carpet looks handsome on the gleaming fir floor, and I’m especially fond of the glass-fronted cupboards on each side of the fireplace. I polished my silver tea set and placed it on the top shelf, while our small collection of books lines the lower shelves. So far I have had very little time for reading! The fireplace is constructed of stones that I selected myself and carried, one by one, from the creek bed.

George and I had our first disagreement over his stuffed moose head, which he was resolved to hang over the mantel. Looking into the creature’s dark, wicked eyes makes my blood run cold. George says they are indeed dangerous, and if I am charged by one, I must run in circles around a tree, as they are too ungainly to catch me and will eventually tire of this sport and wander away! The grotesque head has been stored in the attic “for now,” as George puts it.

For our protection, George brought home a pup from the nearby Indian reserve, a cross between a northern husky and the saints know what. He is a dear wee creature with blue eyes and a tail that curls over his back. I have named him Riley. Sure, and isn’t he living the life of Riley here — wide open spaces and all the rabbits he can catch!

Now that the house is complete, we must begin to work and save in earnest, and I am resolved to do everything in my power to create a home in this beautiful savage land.

When George came back from the trenches in 1919, as a “returned man,” the Soldier Settlement Act allowed him to stake his claim on two quarters of land. (Plus the government gave him a handout of long underwear!)

Although a great distance from town, the presence of a good well makes this property appealing. For the past five years George has worked like a slave to clear the required number of ten acres per year, and “prove up” his claim. He is now master of his domain, with 320 acres to call his own, although only fifty are yet broken.

This part of the country is called “The Last Best West,” the only area left in Canada for those wishing to homestead. The fertile prairie land has been taken up, but George says he prefers the north because of the plentiful trees for firewood and buildings. The trees here are very tall and straight and good for construction. Everything is made of logs, from toilets to chicken coops.

The setting is truly majestic. We are situated in a slight hollow, not far from the creek where the livestock drink. On both the east and west sides of the yard, George planted a double row of poplars and spruce, appropriately called a windbreak, to provide “our shelter from the stormy blast.” The southern aspect is open to a view of our own fields and the far-off blue hills.

George says he departed from the practice of most newly arrived Englishmen, who long to be “kings of all they survey” and build on the highest hilltop. The old-timers know enough to build in a low spot where the howling winds cannot reach them.

I will name my house Wildwood. It is not fashionable to name houses in this country, but I took one look at the dark forest behind us and determined that this place is a Wildwood if ever there was one!

George says ’twas fate that brought me to the “moochigan” in Juniper, as a man with a wife is more likely to succeed. (The word moochigan, which is taken from the Cree language, is the local name for a dance.) This sounds rather prosaic, but George hastened to tell me he was only joking. He claims that when he first looked into my blue Irish eyes, he felt as if he were drowning. He is nine years older than I, twenty-seven years of age, but he says that I make him feel like a schoolboy. I told him he must have kissed the Blarney Stone!

Our wedding was all that I wished, in spite of the absence of my dear parents. We were married at the Church of England Mission in Juniper. I wore my good brown travelling suit and my brown velvet hat with the pheasant feather cockade. Luckily a photographer was visiting Juniper for the purpose of taking an official picture of the new Hudson’s Bay chief factor and he made our wedding portrait as well.

The O’Neills waited to see me safely wed before beginning the long trip back to Killarney. I still shed bitter tears at the dreadful thought of leaving Ma and Da forever, but perhaps we can make a visit to the land of my birth once the farm has begun to prosper.

My dear husband was worried half to death about bringing me here, so far from civilization, but I assured him that this is exactly what I want, a husband and house of my own, and the adventure of a new life in a new land. Sure, and I must be the happiest girl in the world!

I lifted my eyes from the page and gazed around the room, feeling as if I had been transported through a wormhole back in time. So my great-aunt had chosen this house herself, and everything in it. I could almost hear the Irish lilt in her voice and feel her joyful presence all around me like a warm glow.

I closed the book reverently and replaced it on the shelf. Just as one resisted the temptation to eat an entire box of chocolates at once, I would put this diary away and savour every word.

And that was Day One.

Three hundred and sixty-four days to go.