Читать книгу Matrons and Madams - Sharon Johnston - Страница 8

Boarding the Scotian, 1919

Clara took the ten-mile train ride back to Woodside after saying goodbye to her family. Ivy slept the entire way. The fast rhythmical click of the train made her feel anxious. She’d hardly had time to think in the past few months as she’d prepared to leave her homeland. She placed her finger on her wrist, breathing slowly until her pulse slowed down. As the train rolled forward she thought of ways she might connect with Amelia once in Canada. Her sister had inherited their father’s dark-eyed gypsy look; that she remembered, but as events turned out, also their mother’s careless ways. Clara marvelled that her unmarried sister with a child had captured the heart of a pharmacist. As an adult reflecting on her parents’ decision to send Amelia away to avoid scandal, Clara felt Amelia’s good fortune was poetic justice. She believed her parents could have handled the situation less harshly.

“Three more nights in the house,” Clara said when they arrived back in Woodside. Boxes were piled and marked, waiting to be picked up by the local auctioneers. Their contents defined her domestic life. She pictured the auctioneer holding up her twin crystal decanters with their matching sherry and port glasses. She hoped they would go to someone who liked entertaining.

The pungent aroma of camphor wafted up from the dining-room table. Clara had surrounded her silver tea-and-coffee service with camphor-soaked cloths to prevent tarnishing. The set was packed and ready for shipping along with eleven Limoges demitasse cups. George had bought them directly from the Laternier factory during a visit to France. Clara thought the decorative Limoges stamp on the bottom of the cups was as lovely as the pink, gold, green, and blue border. She loved to serve after-dinner coffee in them when she was entertaining. George, unable to smoke himself, would offer guests a round of cigarettes with the coffee.

It was during a pleasant dinner for a visiting officer that one of her precious Limoges cups had been broken. As she passed a cup of steaming coffee to a guest sitting beside her, the officer made a quick gesture with his outstretched arm. The hot liquid was knocked onto the lap of the guest. When he stood up, yelping in discomfort, the cup on his lap tumbled to the ground, shattering into countless pieces. Clara rushed the afflicted gentleman to the kitchen, alternately reassuring the officer and apologizing to the guest. She handed him a jar of salve she had taken from the hospital for her children’s rashes and left him to administer its soothing effects in private. When the guest returned, he quipped, in a falsetto voice, that he still wanted coffee. The clumsy officer broke into relieved laughter. This, Clara recalled nostalgically, was her final dinner party, the one that had sent George, still breathing with difficulty, back to the front.

Clara went outside to look at the Drakes’ cows basking in the late-day sun. She heard the mooing, suggesting it was milking time. The sun disappeared in the woods at the western edge of the fields. A little laugh escaped her lips at the recollection of a walk in the forest one spring day with George. He had put his hand down the front of her dress, not noticing a pair of elderly neighbours behind them. She had screamed, “Get this wasp away from me!” Swatting at her dress, she pretended George was trying to capture the offending insect. The couple turned modestly away and later asked if she was allergic. George teased her that she would make a great actress. “You are naughty, George,” she said.

The memory comforted her, and gave her thought as she went back in the house to fetch Ivy.

“Let’s go for a walk. Maybe we’ll see a rabbit or a fox before sundown. That’s when they are most active. Settling down for the night, I suppose.”

After she’d gathered up Ivy and they’d started their walk, Clara stopped to chat with the same neighbouring couple that had caught her with George’s hand down her dress. Mr. Hewson, clad in breeches and green wellingtons, leaned with both hands on his silver-handled walking stick as he chatted. He looks so British in his gentleman’s walking uniform, she thought. Mrs. Hewson wore a kerchief that allowed strands of salt-and-pepper hair to escape. Her tweed coat, the same colour as her hair, was loose and baggy, leaving her figure formless.

“Do you remember when Margaret tripped over the laundry basket hanging out the washing, Mrs. Durling?” Mr. Hewson asked, referring to his wife. “Her face was covered in blood and dirt, and she couldn’t move her arm. There weren’t many doctors on call during the war, but you came right away and popped her arm back into its socket. Then you made a splint before I took her to the hospital. The doctor was pleased with your quick reaction.” Mrs. Hewson lifted her arm and made circling motions to show how well she could move it. Clara nodded approvingly.

Bringing the conversation to the present day, Clara said, “James and Dorothy Aston are the new owners of my house.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “Let them know that despite the sadness at the end, we were a happy home. I’m leaving behind some good memories. When we get settled, I’ll send you news.”

An officious-looking man in a blue uniform shouted, “Cabin-class passengers with children, board first.”

“That’s us,” Clara said, pushing Ivy gently in the direction of the gangplank, grateful that Miff had provided the needed cash to upgrade their travel.

They walked along the deck to a spot where they could watch what was happening below on the quay. Clara tried to focus on the commotion and ignore the inner voice insisting it wasn’t too late to change her mind. She watched Ivy affectionately as she chattered away with fellow passengers on deck.

“Once them that’s on the upper deck is boarded, we’ll load on the handicapped,” announced the official down on the quay. “Third-class passengers go last,” he continued, in case anyone stepped out of turn. Clara imagined this puffed-up man with his dissolute red face bicycling back to his modest two-room cottage after the ship departed. She did not resent him relishing his short-lived importance. She pictured him enjoying his pint of beer at the end of the day.

“Oh, my goodness,” Clara said, looking down at the quay. “Auntie Di’s down there, arguing with the official.”

Dressed in a black sheared-lamb coat and hat, Di was shooing away well-dressed passengers who were starting up the gangplank. “Please, make way for the wounded,” she said. “The able-bodied can wait.” She started up the ramp with a man in a wheelchair. His head and eyes were wrapped in white gauze.

“You’ve got no ticket, lady,” the official yelled as though Di were a stowaway.

“Auntie Di is bossier than you, Mummy,” Ivy said. Clara nodded her head in agreement as she watched Di block the boarding passengers. She drew Ivy close and let her snuggle into her old wool coat. Di had urged her to buy a warmer coat before leaving for Canada. “I know, I know. I wasn’t born yesterday,” had been Clara’s irritable reply. She smiled down at Ivy in her white rabbit fur. “I might look a bit tatty, but you look splendid, darling.” Ivy’s arms tightened around Clara’s waist.

Within minutes, the scene below them on the quay was transformed as strapping Canadian officers helped their rank-and-file soldiers get on board. Nurses in blue capes stepped up their pace, fearing another scolding from Di, who they thought must be the matron of the nearby military hospital. Di had no financial worries with her husband a successful financier, but with the onset of war she’d hired a nanny and gone back to nurse at St. George’s Hospital.

Watching Di commandeer captains to push injured enlisted men reminded Clara of her last visit with her friend at St. George’s. There had been a peace parade that day, and it had passed in front of the hospital on its way into Hyde Park. Clara and Di had watched from a second-floor window overlooking the park. Decorated generals and ordinary soldiers in their distinctive uniforms were a vivid reminder that the war had been won through the collaboration of many countries. After the spectators dispersed, Di and Clara had crossed over to the park to sit one last time at their chosen meeting spot as nursing students. Di had liked to smoke there, and it used to be Clara’s job to keep watch so she wouldn’t get caught.

The day after the peace parade, The Times had published an editorial describing how rich and poor had mingled as one for the celebration, “high-born ladies making way for modestly dressed onlookers.” After reading it, Di had put the newspaper down, unimpressed. “Clara, this is the reason you’re moving to Canada. Even the war couldn’t unite the classes here for more than one day.”

Di continued as the self-appointed chargé d’affaires until twenty-five soldiers — some of them amputees, some with head injuries, and some blinded or coughing — were on board.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Di said to the first-class passengers, now embarking behind them. They shook her hand as she stood at the bottom of the gangway.

Clara grabbed Ivy’s hand and rushed down the boarding ramp to meet Di. “You’re the consummate nurse,” she said, linking her arm through Di’s and laughing to hold back her tears.

“Ivy looks wonderful in the fur coat,” Di said, equally emotional. “Promise me you will return soon, Clara. I’ll be waiting at this same dock.” Di took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You’ll do well. I know you will.”

“We’re going to miss you, Di.” And then the officious man shouted for Clara to get back on the ship as though it were a car that could drive away fast.

“When you’re lonely, think of Hyde Park,” Di said, puffing an imaginary cigarette. She turned to leave, still dabbing her eyes.

Clara watched her until she was out of sight; she had curled her fingers into her palms so hard she looked to see if they were bleeding. She took Ivy’s hand and rushed up the plank.

Passengers were settling into their cabins. The steward, who introduced himself as Joseph, answered questions as to various services, mealtimes, and activities. “What sort of entertainment is offered on the ship?” a woman dressed in a smart brown wool dress asked him. She held on to her wide-brimmed hat with her left hand and slapped at the hem of her dress with the other. Each gust of wind exposed her fancy stockings. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I think I shall return to my cabin until the wind dies down.” As she retreated, she removed her hat and used it to hold down her dress.

“How old is the ship?” a decorated officer asked. Clara recognized the Canadian uniform.

“I’m not sure of the age, but she’s recently been refitted in Glasgow,” the steward said. “We’re down to six hundred passengers in Cabin Class, or Third. The vessel was redesigned to take more cargo. Rest assured, Canadian Pacific will provide you with excellent service.”

“Are you a shareholder?” The soldier laughed.

The steward smiled and made a barely perceptible bow of his head.

Ivy’s wispy hair was blowing all over. “Let’s get out of this wind,” Clara said, brushing a strand off her daughter’s face. They scurried into the lounge, where three green upholstered benches provided seating against the walls. At the near end were shelves with well-worn books, a pair of binoculars, bowls of mints, and some dog-eared playing cards. Above the shelves, a partially rolled-down map bore a description of the ship’s history: The Scotian transported Canadian Expeditionary Forces to Britain in 1914, but at the end of the war served as accommodation for German prisoners on the Isle of Wight.

Other passengers hurried into the lounge to get out of the wind. A tall, thin man with steel-grey hair, identifying himself as Mr. Mason, said, “I have the latest weather report. Captain Haines said our departure will be stormy, but fair weather will arrive when we clear England and be with us for the rest of the journey. I’m off to Canada to check on my daughter who’s married a Canadian soldier.” He spoke the last sentence proudly and had the look of a man who laughed often. The lounge was filled with British, English, and French-Canadian accents. Everyone seemed eager to tell his story.

A soldier in his mid-twenties stood in a corner of the lounge, observing the happy commotion. Noticing his medical insignia cap badge, Clara asked if he was a doctor.

“I am the doctor on the Scotian, a post that offers the benefit of free passage.” He held up his right stump and a thumbless left hand. “Let’s hope we don’t have a surgical emergency.” His grey-green eyes crinkled with amusement while his mop of straight auburn hair gave him a boyish look “You’re Sister Durling! Do you remember me from Maidenhead Hospital?”

“My goodness, I do! You’re Dr. James Barnaby, a protégé of Francis Newbury’s. You were part of the Second Canadian Division from Nova Scotia if my memory serves me.”

Dr. Barnaby laughed. “I recall waiting outside Dr. Newbury’s operating room, watching you march around the ward as though you were in charge of a battalion.” Dr. Barnaby’s eyes brightened at the memory, and they both chuckled.

“After losing my right hand and left thumb, being a surgeon was no longer an option. Learning of my dashed hopes, Dr. Newbury arranged for me to finish my medical studies in Scotland with an emphasis on neuropsychiatry. I did my practicum at Craiglockhart Psychiatric Hospital treating shell shock. That was worse than accepting my change in plans. I was on the committee that decided when a soldier was ready to go back to the front. I felt I was letting a soldier commit suicide with my blessing each time I signed a Return to Front order.”

“Dr. Newbury is head of the department of surgery in Edmonton now. Are you going to join him?’

“Yes.” Dr. Barnaby’s eyes were serious but happy.

“Such a coincidence,” Clara said. “I’m also off to Alberta to assume a position, thanks to Dr. Newbury.

“What will you be doing?” he asked.

“I will be the lady superintendent of the Galt Hospital in Lethbridge.”

“That makes two of us owing our second chance to Dr. Newbury.”

Clara excused herself as Ivy tugged on her arm to go and explore the ship. “I hope we won’t be needing your services,” she said with a broad smile.