Читать книгу The Beleaguered - Lynne Golding - Страница 11

Chapter 3

SNELL’S LAKE

The telegram required Roy to report to his regiment five days later. He went into immediate action. After hours of pacing, investigation of train schedules, and consideration of other commitments, he finally concluded that the first train he could take to Winnipeg was the one for which he and the other members of his family had tickets: the Sunday train leaving two days hence. It would, his father calmly told him, arrive in Winnipeg well before his required reporting time.

With his travel plans settled, Roy resumed his anticipation of the leaving party. The leaving party, which occurred the day before the Turners left for their home in Winnipeg, was a much anticipated event. The get-together was not special for its list of attendees, since, with the exception of Aunt Lil, who sometimes joined us, it was attended by the same people who attended nearly every family gathering convened in the month of the Turners’ attendance in Brampton. Unlike some other parties, it did not involve presents, or songs, or lengthy speeches, although Father could rarely resist the opportunity to publicly bestow some wishes on those gathered. It was sufficient, it seemed, for the three families to join at an event called a “leaving party” for the occasion to rise to the honorific of such a gathering; for it to transcend the ordinary picnic or dinner.

But this year—in August of 1914—there was a sense among us that the gathering truly was special. It had been a miracle, Mother said, that in the seven years since the Turners left Brampton, they had never once missed the return trip to the town from which they all hailed. We knew that the annual pilgrimage would one day come to an end; that the visits would ultimately become less regular; that they would eventually include fewer people. Even before the hostilities were declared, we recognized that Roy, a young man about to begin his career, and Bill, who would soon follow him, would not have the ability their father had to leave their places of employment for five weeks each summer. We planned this leaving party knowing that it might be the last such party for a time, not knowing when or where the remaining Darlings and Stephenses would next see the departing Turners, and not knowing, as it turned out, the full extent of those who would be departing for Winnipeg the next day.

Many locations had been proposed for the special occasion. Many had been rejected. The Forks of the Credit, a parkland in the Caledon Hills, where after enjoying a picnic lunch in the wild grasslands, the men fished, the women picked flowers, and the children ran and swam—was rejected as too commonplace. We had already been there twice that summer.

A day’s excursion to Niagara Falls was rejected by John and Bill, who desired a location at which they could swim. “Swim and not drown,” John clarified.

A drive to Mono Mills, proposed by Jim, was rejected by everyone as being too distant. Jim always suggested activities that involved cars. He was a fanatic about automobiles. He loved looking at them, touching them, and studying them. Jim also loved drawing cars. He drew them as they then were in their big carriage-like shape, and he drew them longer and sleeker as he envisaged they might be in the future. He drew their entire bodies and he drew their parts; just their tires; just their dashboards; any parts. To Mother’s chagrin, he loved to tinker with a car’s engine, to change its oil, to lift, push, prod, and replace various engine parts. He thought nothing of getting his hands and, consequently, his clothes covered in grease and oil. While Jim was at home in the summer or on weekends through the school year, a family member’s car never sat dirty in a garage or a driveway. Each was cleaned and polished as soon as Jim noticed a streak of dust or a splash of slush marring its shiny exterior.

But mostly, Jim loved being in a car. Until recently, he could only make a suggestion that the family take a trip in a car during the month that the Turners were in residence, since Uncle William was the only member of our family to own an automobile. The recent acquisition of a Ford touring car by Aunt Rose enabled Jim to refer to outings involving cars in the plural. Father thought it absurd that his sister should make such an acquisition, but his feelings toward the automobile softened when Aunt Rose welcomed Jim to drive it whenever a car was required by our immediate family.

“How about a picnic at Snell’s Lake?” I suggested. “We can drive there. It’s not too far. And it has a place to swim.” Snell’s Lake was a naturally occurring lake located in the middle of a large parkland about six miles north of Brampton. Named for the original owner of the land on which it was situate, the body of water provided Brampton with water to service its industrial and other needs. It was surrounded by both treed and cleared lands, also making it ideal for summer picnics, games of hide-and-seek, swimming, boating, and other amusements. It was the place I learned to swim and canoe. In fact, the two went hand in hand. For three years, my method of water buoyancy involved lying stomach down across two ropes strung between two cedar logs. My desire to join my friend Frances in her new red canoe, something Father would only permit if I could swim independently for fifty yards, propelled me to abandon the flotation device. So determined was I to join Frances in her canoe, I learned to swim and paddle in one day.

It was the Sunday before the leaving party. The entire extended family was sitting on our verandah. Children from down the street were playing a game of catch. The ball had just rolled in front of our house. Roy ran down the verandah steps to throw it back to them.

“Snell’s Lake. That’s a great suggestion, Little One,” Jim said. He gave one of my ringlets a pull. I never minded the nickname or the little tug, when applied by my beloved brother. I knew that they were both meant as acts of endearment. Everyone concurred, and we began to make further plans until Ina interrupted us.

“Wait a moment, did you mean this coming Saturday?” When this was confirmed, we continued our planning. Aunt Rose thought a white linen picnic was in order. She suggested a few dishes.

“I think we should pick another location,” Ina said, interrupting the menu planning. “You know Aunt Lil will not travel in an automobile.” That was true. Among Aunt Lil’s many peculiarities was her philosophical and practical opposition to cars. Claiming automobiles to be a danger to passengers, pedestrians, horses, and our way of life, Aunt Lil refused to enter one. In this she was not entirely alone. Other people were also opposed to the proliferation of the automobile—though she was the only one in our family among that group. Examples abounded to justify their view of the safety risk. We regularly heard about cars crashing or overturning as a result of missed turns or burst tires or cars being driven at excessive speeds, all of which claimed the lives of one or more passengers.

“It’s not the fault of the car!” Jim would exclaim when these examples were raised by critics. “It’s the fault of the drivers.”

Nonetheless, we conceded Ina’s point about Aunt Lil’s aversion and began to consider closer locations. None offered the water recreation sought by John and Bill. Finally, Bill asked whether anyone thought Aunt Lil would actually attend the leaving party. It was a good question. One could never be sure about anything pertaining to Aunt Lil. The fact that she said she would attend the party was no guarantee whatsoever. Her record in attending Turner leaving parties was quickly established. Of the seven that had been held since the Turners left Brampton in 1907, she had attended five. Of those, she had said she would attend three. Of the two that she did not attend, she had told us to expect her at one.

“I know she felt badly about her appearance and demeanour on the night the hostilities were declared,” Ina said. “So I think it is reasonably certain she will attend. We should look for another location. John and Bill can swim another day.”

We continued thinking. It was somewhat ironic that we had to go to such lengths to find a picnic location near a watercourse when Brampton had running through it two creeks. Unfortunately, neither one of them served as a location for water pleasure, and one of them, the Etobicoke, which ran through the downtown area and frequently flooded, was often a cause of extreme displeasure. The flats that surrounded the creek did provide a recreational use, including a place to throw balls and climb trees, but swimming in the creek itself was out of the question. Strong currents made it dangerous when it was fast-moving; pollutants made it dangerous when it was slow-moving.

The neighbouring children had switched to playing tag. Three of them were running toward us, the “it” child gaining on the first two. Eventually, Mother spoke. “You know, the McKechnies go to Snell’s Lake almost every Saturday in the summer. I expect that if we take a couple of the McKechnie girls in one of our cars, they will take Aunt Lil and one of our party in their carriage.” The McKechnies still kept their horses. Our family was unique among our neighbours in having neither a car nor a horse.

Considering the matter settled, menu planning resumed among the women. Jim began a discussion among the boys about other activities to be undertaken at the party, including, he proposed, a game of baseball.

* * *

We were all delighted on the day of the leaving party, when two hours prior to our designated departure time, Aunt Lil arrived at our house, her carpet bag in hand. She looked far less deranged than the last time we had seen her, the green of her long-sleeved wool jacket complimenting her ankle-length green serge skirt. Her red hair, though quite visible, was loosely caught up in a tall felt hat.

She was delighted to be conveyed to Snell’s Lake in the McKechnies’ horse-drawn, low-down democrat. She flatly refused all suggestions that she change her attire into something cooler. It was nearly eighty degrees, and it was not yet noon. She declared her ensemble to constitute her picnic clothes. A suggestion that I carry her carpet bag upstairs into the room in which she would spend the night was similarly rebuffed. She would not put me to the trouble. I silently groaned. I could not help but think of the last time she had taken that bag to a social outing. While she and the rest of my family socialized with others, I was required to stay in one place and watch it.

Aunt Lil and I were the first of our party to arrive at the lake and its popular picnic area. Blankets of various colours dotted the ground before us. A large party was gathering just to the right of the entrance area. The signs posted indicated it was the summer picnic of St. Mary’s Church. One of the signs listed the games to be played by the parishioners. In addition to the usual dashes (segregated by distance, age, and sex), wheelbarrow races, broad jump contests, and swimming races, there was a fat men’s race, a married men’s race, a needle threading contest, and a contest to catch a pig.

Aunt Lil and I found a spot we considered to be ideal. It was large enough to accommodate our party, close enough to the lake to view the swimming members of our family, and not too far from the parking area to carry the burgeoning picnic baskets once they arrived. Aunt Lil and I laid out the three blankets with which we had been entrusted and waited for the remaining members of our family.

The car driven by Uncle William was the next to arrive. Aunt Lil and I waved him, Roy, Bill, and Ina to the area we had reserved, excited about what we considered to be its ideal location. Ina, unfortunately, thought otherwise. It was too close to the blankets of other families. It did not have the right vantage point over the park. The ground below the blankets was too lumpy.

“Look at that stand of trees over there,” she said, pointing to a spot quite some distance away. “Look how even the terrain appears there. We’ll have some privacy. Father will be able to make a speech. You know how he likes to do that. The swimmers can easily walk back to the lake after we eat.”

“Over there?” I exclaimed. “It’s half a mile away. You can’t expect the boys to carry the picnic baskets all the way over there.”

This statement had all the markings of a challenge to Roy and Bill. They liked the look of the distant location. A baseball diamond could easily be created next to it. They committed to carry the heavy baskets. Ina pulled up the three blankets, and we walked to the more distant location, eventually being joined by the rest of our party.

With so much space around us, we were able to assemble the blankets in a long line before spreading a length of white linen across them and laying out the china and silver. As we ate cold duck slices with orange sauce, sausages wrapped in pastry, potato salad with watercress and bacon, a salad of carrots and raisins, another salad of green beans and pimento, and a selection of three cheeses, our conversation occurred much as it would have had we eaten at home.

“You’ll never guess who I saw today,” Uncle William said excitedly. We knew he had spent the morning with Richard Blain.

“Old Andrew Foster.” We looked at him blankly. “You remember him. He was born in Brampton. Left it when he was quite young, I’ll admit. But Charlotte, you’ve heard me speak of him, and Roy, you’ve met him a few times. He manages the movement of supplies for the CPR—the supplies the railway needs and the transport of difficult customer supplies.” Neither Roy nor Aunt Charlotte displayed any signs of recognition. He continued. “He gets grain from more distant grain elevators; gets it to more difficult ports. He organizes special routes and processes when the usual ones won’t do. He’s quite clever.”

Roy nodded. He had no recollection of the man. As few of us could quite fathom the difficulty of his position and none of us could fathom the name or the face, no one had a response worthy of the excitement of Uncle William’s declaration. Finally, Aunt Charlotte asked Uncle William where he had seen Andrew Foster.

“Here in Brampton! He lives in Toronto but has family here. Wanted to see them before he heads off to Valcartier.”

“Valcartier!” Roy said, the conversation now taking what he considered to be an interesting turn. “Is he enlisting? Isn’t he a little old? I gathered he was your age.”

“Thank you for that,” Uncle William said. “Yes, he is enlisting, but not as a general recruit. He is going to be assuming a leadership role in a special division called the Canadian Army Supply Corps, or the CASC. His detachment within it is called the Railway Supply Detachment.” John and Jim, who both loved trains, now became interested as well. “The division will be responsible for the movement of materials–guns, food, bandages, lumber, everything required—and to the movement of men from Canada all the way to the battle lines. It will also be responsible for the movement of men back again from those lines, including injured men. He needs smart men to join the corps—men who understand how to move materials and people.”

“Ah,” said Roy. “Now I understand why such an old man is enlisting. I couldn’t picture him in a combat role.”

Uncle William ignored that, knowing that of course there would be many older men serving in senior combat roles. “Roy that is exactly what you have been doing with grain in the past two years working part-time with me. I wonder if you shouldn’t think of joining the division. Mr. Foster will be at Valcartier for the next month. You should meet with him there!”

The statement had an equal and opposite effect on two people at our picnic. Thinking that such a position would better keep Roy out of harm’s way, Aunt Charlotte was quick to encourage him to consider the opportunity. For that exact same reason, Roy refused.

“Sounds like a desk job to me,” he said. “No thank you. They need brave men on the battle lines; men willing to hold and shoot a gun. That’s where you’ll find me.”

Aunt Charlotte’s shoulders slumped a little. But only a little. She was not surprised Roy would take that position. When she heard what came next, she realized it likely did not matter. The positions were equally dangerous.

“A desk job? Well, I suppose, but the desk may well be at the battle lines—or very near them. Some of their work will be done in England, but much of the supply management will occur near the men in combat. The members of the corps carry a gun; they receive full combat training. Think about it. At the very least, meet with Mr. Foster when you get to Valcartier.”

Of all those in attendance, the only one who seemed not to be following the conversation about the movement of war supplies and men was Ina. She had not uttered a single sentence during the entire meal. Her attention seemed focussed on something closer to our original picnic location. Jim noticed it too.

“Ina,” he said as the women began to scrape the picnic dishes. “Go see if any of the McKechnies want to join our baseball game. We could use a few more players.” Ina hesitated but then agreed. By the time she returned, ten minutes later, Jim and Roy had established the baseball diamond, employing four small burlap bags of sand.

Only Katie McKechnie accompanied Ina back to our location. Her sisters could not be convinced to leave their picnic blankets. With similar refusals to play provided by Father and Uncle William (there was never any suggestion that the ladies would play), we were eight players. Roy quickly divided us into two teams of four. Not the best, he declared, but we would have fun.

We did have fun—for about three innings. Jim and Roy, the two team captains, each hit a home run. Jim might have scored a second if Ina had not caught the ball he hit in his very glove, loaned to her while he was at bat. I stole a base, and so did Hannah. In the third inning, Bill hit a long ball, which bounced on the ground just behind Katie. Before she could retrieve it, she screamed. Running toward her, with a pack of eight boys in its pursuit, was a small pink pig covered in some kind of slime. John, who was in the process of stealing third base, did not look back. He ignored Katie’s scream and would have made it to home plate had the greasy piglet not crossed his path. John went flying. The pig touched home plate, as did the eight pursing boys.

“Catch the pig,” Ina announced, stating the name of the game they were playing. It had clearly gotten out of hand.

“I’m not sure that they will,” Bill said.

“Say,” I said to Ina as we watched the group recede in the distance. “Isn’t that Michael at the back of the group?”

“I have no idea,” Ina said, moving to check on John.

We played one more inning before our game was interrupted again. The piglet had doubled back and was once more running toward us. “Catch it!” the boys yelled. “Catch it!” I wondered how they expected us to do so, when I saw, approaching us from the other direction, a number of older men, one holding a leather halter and a towel. That man, who appeared to be a farmer, kneeled down on the ground before reaching our baseball diamond. Within minutes, he had the piglet in the towel.

“Suffice it to say, you lost the game, boys!” shouted the man with the greasy piglet. He and the other men began walking back to the church group near the parking area.

“I’m not sure we should go back,” one of the church boys said to no one in particular.

“Don’t go back!” Jim cried. “Harry! Michael! Sam!” he called, referring to those he knew by name. “Stay and play with us. We’ll reconstitute the teams. The Methodists versus the Catholics. You good for a game?” They were. Introductions were quickly made, a coin was tossed, and the Methodists lined up to take the bat.

The remaining portion of our game took on a very different character. The St. Mary’s team, being comprised of male members mostly the size of Roy and Jim, assumed they would have a clear advantage over our team. In that, they underestimated the athletic abilities of both the male and female descendants of my sportsman grandfather, Jas Stephens. Our knowledge that the St. Mary’s team members had not even been able to capture a piglet led to a high degree of confidence on the part of the Methodists.

Eventually, our little game became the entertainment for the rest of our family, a good number of the St. Mary’s parishioners who came in search of their missing boys, and dozens of others at the lake that day. It was a good game, with each team leading at various points.

After nine innings, the score was tied and we agreed to end it that way. The most interesting aspect from my perspective was not the home runs made, the other runs earned, the fly catches, or the number of strikes. The most interesting aspect was a small event that occurred at first base about halfway through the game. The Methodists were at bat. The bases were loaded. There were two outs. Ina bunted the ball just beyond first base, which was then being manned by Michael. He slipped back to retrieve the ball as she ran for the base. He arrived back at it before she did, ball in hand. At full flight, she ran toward the base, where he caught her as she collided with him. I could not help but notice that his arms were around her approximately one second longer than necessary; that she blushed when she was ruled to be out; and that she smiled when our bases were emptied. As everyone else changed positions, I thought I was likely the only one to notice it. In that, I forgot the observant nature of my aunts.

* * *

We did not get home until about eight o’clock that evening. The day had been hot, and our house, so long closed up and empty, was stuffy. After opening the second floor windows, Mother and Aunt Charlotte joined Ina, me, Aunt Lil, Uncle William, and Father on our verandah. Jim had left for Millie’s house. Aunt Rose, Hannah, and John were at their house. Bill and Roy were there too, packing their belongings in preparation for their departure the next morning. Aunt Lil sat on two of the four matching wicker armchairs. True to her word, Aunt Lil had not once the entire afternoon, despite the temperature rising to over eight-five degrees, removed her heavy jacket.

“The house will be cooled down in no time,” Mother said as she and Aunt Charlotte claimed the last two armchairs. Father and Uncle William stood leaning against the railing, each with a pipe in hand. I was perched on a small stool next to Aunt Lil. Ina sat on the chaise lounge, her right leg causing it to swing gently back and forth.

Although our verandah was the location of many lively conversations, it did not appear that it would be so that evening. The activities of the day had deprived us of much of our remaining energy. Aunt Lil and Aunt Charlotte stared into the star lit sky beyond the verandah’s roof. Eventually, Aunt Lil broke the silence by beginning a conversation, high on the outlandish scale.

“Ina,” she said, “I am a little vexed with you.”

“With me, Aunt Lil? What did I do?” Ina was clearly surprised by any suggestion that she would annoy her favourite aunt.

“Surely, dear sister,” Aunt Charlotte interjected, directing her statement toward Aunt Lil, “this is not something to be discussed at this time.” She furrowed her eyebrows and nodded slightly, identifying me and the gentlemen on the verandah as those who should not be present for such a conversation.

“I don’t know what you mean, Charlotte,” Aunt Lil replied. “I am certainly qualified to determine whether it is the appropriate time to speak about a matter with my niece.” Although the conversation may have begun as one between Aunt Lil and Ina, by this point everyone on the verandah was following it.

“As you say,” Aunt Charlotte conceded. “Sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, but I share your vexation, so do go on.”

“I’ve upset both of you?” Ina cried. “But how?” Aunt Charlotte deferred to her elder sister.

“Dear Ina, it became very evident to me at the lake today that you have a secret you have been keeping from me. I’m hurt that you did not confide in me earlier.”

“Confide in you?” Aunt Charlotte again interjected. “You are vexed because Ina kept a secret from you? Surely, Lillian, you are more vexed by the subject of the secret than by the fact that it was kept.”

“The subject of it? Not at all,” Aunt Lil replied.

Father and Uncle William looked at each other in complete ignorance. “What the deuce are you talking about?” Father asked irritably. “I’m concerned if Ina has caused either of you offence, but for the life of me I have no idea what secret she has kept from you.”

“You have no idea, Jethro?” Aunt Charlotte asked. Father replied in the negative.

“You should know, Jethro, that Ina has a beau, and he is entirely unsuitable,” Aunt Charlotte said in an upbraiding tone.

Mother rose from her chair, and after vacillating over who most required her support—Father or Ina—joined Ina on the chaise. I could tell that Mother was not completely surprised by Aunt Charlotte’s accusation.

Uncle William turned to Father. “At times like this, I am most relieved to have only sons. I think I will take my pipe and go for a walk. Join me, Doc, if you like. It sounds like the ladies have this well in hand.” Father hesitated only momentarily before following Uncle William down the remaining verandah steps. Ina shrank into Mother’s arms.

“Charlotte, why do you say that he is unsuitable?” Aunt Lil asked. “He appears to be a nice boy. He comes from an old Brampton family.” In those days, an “old Brampton family” was a proxy for a “good Brampton family.” This was not to say that newcomers could not also be good Bramptonians—they just had to work harder to prove their worthiness. “Things like that don’t matter to me,” Aunt Lil continued, “but I know they matter to you.”

“Yes,” Aunt Charlotte replied. “They matter a great deal but…”

“His family is an old Brampton family. His great-grandfather was brother to John Lynch, one of Brampton’s first settlers.” In her history teacher sort of way, Aunt Lil laid out the key facts. John Lynch had settled in Brampton 1819. He was a great promoter of the area, prodigiously writing advice to early settlers as to what to plant, where to live, and what to build in order to make their life in the colonies a success. Together with his brother-in-law, John Scott, in 1839 he established a brewery and an ashery. Within fifteen years, he left that business and became a real estate broker and land conveyancer, coming to own great tracts of Brampton land. He advocated for the incorporation of the village and became its first reeve. He was an active justice of the peace for twenty-five years and was instrumental in bringing the railway to Brampton.

“None of that matters to me, of course,” Aunt Lil concluded. “What matters is that he is kind to Ina, which he seems to be, and that he makes her happy, which he seems to do.”

“I am glad you noticed that,” Aunt Charlotte replied, in a scandalized tone. “Did you notice the team he played for today?”

“Of course I did. The St. Mary’s team.”

“Exactly. That young man is a papist. And a relation of John Lynch! Heavens. The Lynches aren’t just any Catholics. They are the preeminent Catholics of Brampton.” Then, demonstrating that she too was once a teacher, Aunt Charlotte continued. “Was it not John Lynch who in the mid-1860s donated the land on Centre Street for the construction of Brampton’s first Catholic church—Guardian Angels—and its Catholic cemetery?”

I recalled what I knew about the Guardian Angels Church. It was burned to the ground on Orangemen’s Day, July 12, 1878. The devastation of the fire was complete in part because the rope in the bell tower of the fire station was off its runner when the fire was first reported.

“But what is the harm if he is Catholic, Charlotte?” Aunt Lil queried. “Why should that matter? You are all Christians. I have never understood your commitment—or our brother’s commitment—to this Protestant–Catholic divide.” I looked at Ina. Her face was buried in her hands, resting on Mother’s shoulder. I liked Michael Lynch, and I did not care that he was a papist. I also liked the new Ina—the Ina with Michael as a beau. She was much nicer to be with. She was almost kind to me. I did not relish a return of the old Ina—the Ina without Michael. So I ventured into the discussion, recalling facts I surreptitiously learned many years ago.

“I agree with Aunt Lil,” I said. A minor could go very wrong in our family in disputing the position of an elder, but one generally had a hope of avoiding censure when the view was supported by at least one adult in the conversation. “There are other good Catholics in Brampton, and some of them are even of old families. And if Ina and Michael marry, then he will become Methodist.” In Brampton, it was the custom that the husband joined the wife’s church after they wed. Astonishment greeted my declaration. Even Ina raised her head and uncovered her face to hear my oration. Believing I needed to educate my sister, mother, and aunts, I went on.

“Look at Mr. Gilchrist,” I offered slightly louder, more confidently. “He was born and raised a Catholic. He became a Primitive Methodist later in his life, and look at all of the good things he did for Brampton. He was a town councillor and a Member of the Provincial Parliament and a businessman who employed many people. And he donated the concert hall to the town.”

They continued to stare at me. I thought more examples were needed, so I continued. “And even though he was not Baptist, he donated the land down the street to that congregation for the construction of their church.” The fact that he also donated the land for the Primitive Methodist Church did not seem particularly noteworthy, given that he was of that congregation. So I did not mention it.

They continued to look bewildered, and so I offered my last salvo. “And even though he was born Catholic, he donated the stone that was used for the construction of the Presbyterian Church.”

At that Mother stood up. Mother was a model of tolerance. Many people told me that she was the sweetest person they knew. She certainly was the sweetest person I knew. Although she was sometimes stern with me, she was never cross. I knew that she did not share the prejudiced views of Aunt Charlotte and Father. As she walked slowly toward me, I rose to receive the embrace I was sure would accompany a compliment on my brave and principled stand.

But Mother stopped her approach too far away to take me in her arms, and her eyes, when cast upon me, were anything but proud.

She lifted her right hand and slapped me hard across the face. It was the first time anyone had ever struck me. My eyes filled with tears. My hand rose to touch my smarting cheek. “My dear,” she said in a cold voice I barely recognized, “wherever did you get those notions? That man made no such donation to the Presbyterian Church. Don’t let me or your grandfather ever hear you speak that way about that man again!” She turned and went inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

Ina stopped seeing Michael Lynch. When the Turners left for Winnipeg the next day, Ina went with them. It was a long time before I again uttered the name of Kenneth Gilchrist. But Mother’s admonition never left me. “Don’t let me or your grandfather ever hear you speak that way about that man again!” Had Mother just given me a piece in the puzzle that was the mystery of my grandfather and the Presbyterian Church? I did not know, but I was once again determined to find out.