The Lemon Tree

by Helen Forrester

  She laid her face on her clasped hands and closed her eyes. While she smiled at the memory, she cursed herself for being so stupid.

  When he saw the gesture, Benji thought she was going to cry, and he leaned forward as if to touch her, but she turned her face towards him and said, ‘How can I face the staff here, looking as round as a full moon? I can’t. If I go home, what am I to do about the soapery? It takes time to sell anything at a decent price. I’d be as fat as butter before I could make a deal – I’ve already put on some weight.’ She patted her waistline. ‘And I don’t want to sell,’ she finished savagely.

  ‘You could marry me,’ Benji said softly. ‘We’d get on all right.’ And very practically added to himself, ‘And you’d bring one hell of a dowry.’

  He had the decency to feel a little ashamed at himself for considering that, as her husband, he, too, would indubitably try to gain complete control of the firm; against that, if her lover took it over, it could go out of the family as surely as if she’d sold it.

  She straightened herself up, and smiled very sweetly at him. ‘Bless you, my dear,’ she said gently. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  He asked quite cheerfully, ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘I know there’s a difference in age, but I don’t mind – and I wouldn’t mind betting that you could produce another little one a year after this one. Two’s a nice family.’

  She drew out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard. ‘Benji, you’re sweet. But it’s more complicated than that. It would be obvious that the child isn’t yours.’

  ‘Who’s to know?’

  ‘Everybody who sees it will know. It’ll be black – or at least as dark as Alfie at the works!’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  She saw Benji recoil in shock – and distaste. She hated him for it, and it immediately told her something about the unborn child.

  Benji had had a father from the Middle East, but he had been moulded in the streets of Liverpool, a city built on the backs of slaves traded to the New World. To be black in such a city was to be a nobody – and she thought of Alfie, thin, sad, at the bottom of the pile. Not for my child, she thought proudly.

  Benji had once or twice mentioned bullying he had endured as a child, not only because he was of mixed blood but because he was also illegitimate. How much worse would it be for a thoroughly brown boy who was illegitimate? How could Benji sit there looking so disgusted, when he had gone through so much himself?

  In this she did Benji an injustice; it was precisely because he knew what Wallace Helena’s baby would face in the back streets of Liverpool that he was so shaken. He didn’t want to be a party to its happening. Better by far that she go back to Edmonton, where presumably there were lots of Red Indians who would look much the same.

  Benji simply did not know what to say. Poor little bastard, he thought with compassion. To fill in the silence, he asked her to tell him about the child’s father. ‘Do you want to marry him?’ he asked.

  The answer was straightforward. ‘Yes, I love him very much.’ She lifted her head and stretched herself. ‘You ask what he is? He’s simply one of the finest men I’ve ever met.’ She went on to tell him of Joe’s origins, and he listened fascinated.

  At the end, she said, ‘He’s like a bridge between the Crees and the Metis and white people. He grieves at what has happened to his mother’s people. Like his Cree grandfather, he knows that the Crees don’t stand a chance against the whites, now the buffalo herds are gone – the herds were a source of food. So he’s spent his life trying to smooth out things where he could, trying to ease those he knows into farming. But these people have been cheated by the Government at every turn. So, when he had the chance he joined my stepfather, Tom Harding, in clearing a homestead – and trapping.’

  She sighed. ‘He and Tom went through some terrible times together – but they were great friends. Now the farm usually provides a surplus of one grain or another – and some meat. Up to now, it’s been difficult to sell a surplus – but once the railway reaches us, we’ll be able to sell it abroad. There’s real hope now – for us – but the Crees, as a whole, are still in sorry straits.’

  Her mind wandered from her own difficulties; and Benji saw the absolute fatigue and sorrow on her face, as she saw in her mind’s eye the hungry people who often knocked at her door.

  Benji roused himself. ‘So your little one won’t go hungry, if you take him back to Canada?’

  ‘Not while I’m alive,’ she replied with grim determination.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I really don’t know. My very first thought is to go to town and buy one or two nicely draped dresses to hide my condition in the next month or two – it’s not really obvious yet, but it will be very soon. I’d noticed that my waistbands were tight, but I thought I was putting on weight from lack of exercise! Do you think a dress shop could help me in this?’

  ‘I’m sure they could. Try Frisby, Dyke’s on Lord Street.’

  Thanks. It may buy me a month or so, to get a reply from Joe – and think how best to keep the Lady Lavender going.’

  ‘Well, I can manage it – as you know. So don’t worry about it for a bit.’

  ‘I know you can do it, Benji.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I must remember in all this that I have to take care of you and your dear mother.’

  ‘What about talking to Mother about the baby?’

  She considered this suggestion, and then said, ‘I don’t think I will, for the moment. Perhaps later. What I need is a couple of days, to collect my scattered wits. Then I’ll find my way. At the moment I feel like a drunken seaman in a storm.’

  She had spoken the last two sentences in English, and he laughed. ‘You sound like an American seaman,’ he told her.

  ‘Not surprising – I learned my awful English in Chicago, remember – in a slum.’

  He nodded. God, she’d been through it, he thought, as he rose. He went round to the back of her chair, and pulled it out for her. She turned, her face close to his. Very carefully, she kissed him on the cheek. Thanks, Benji,’ she said.

  ‘If all else fails,’ he told her, with a quick grin, ‘my offer of matrimony still holds. I’d protect the baby – and you – as best I could.’

  ‘I really believe you would. Thank you, my dear.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Prejudice? The spectre raised its ugly head, in Wallace Helena’s mind, as she walked swiftly up to Dr Biggs’s house to collect her prescription.

  Mrs Biggs opened the door to her and invited her into the hallway. A bottle of bright pink liquid, neatly labelled with her name, was waiting for her on a little table. Mrs Biggs handed it to her with a tiny slip of paper which proved to be her bill. She paid this by putting the coins down on the table, sensing that it might be rude to put the money straight into the hands of the doctor’s wife.

  Mrs Biggs thanked her and told her not to hesitate to return if the cough continued beyond another ten days. Wallace Helena smiled agreement, and wondered if Mrs Biggs knew she was pregnant. She wondered sardonically what the lady would think if she knew the child was coloured.

  After the door closed on her, she hesitated on the pavement, and then she turned and walked up to Park Road, in the hope of finding a small shop that sold baby clothes. John Patrick Fitzpatrick had to have a present.

  ‘Would it be for a boy or a girl, Ma’am?’ the stout female behind the counter inquired.

  ‘A boy.’

  ‘Ah, then. It’s blue you’ll be wantin’?’ She added coyly, ‘Blue for boys; pink for girls.’

  This was news to Wallace Helena, who had, for most of her life, seen only little papooses tucked into wood-backed bags on their mothers’ backs. She accepted the word of the shopkeeper, however, and bought a blue knitted jacket. Then, feeling this was not enough, she bought a crocheted baby blanket, as well. Armed with these offerings, she went down to The Cockle Hole to have her dinner.

  When she lifted the latch of the front door and
entered, the house looked far from pristine; it did not even smell the same. An untidy woman met her in the hall. She had a bucket full of nappies in one hand.

  ‘I’m Mrs Kelly,’ she told Wallace Helena. ‘I’m doin’ a spell while Chrissie Barnes ‘as gone to see to her hubby. I thought I’d do a fry-up for yez. It don’t take long.’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ Wallace told her, though she was hot certain what would arrive on her plate. ‘May I go up to see Elsie?’

  ‘For sure. She’s learnin’ the baby to suck, but she won’t mind.’

  The bedroom was stuffy and smelled of dried blood and another distinctive odour, which was, Wallace Helena supposed, a damp or dirty baby. The young mother was propped up in the muddled bed. She had opened her nightgown to expose perfect swelling breasts, and she was patiently trying to persuade the baby to accept her nipple.

  At Wallace Helena’s hesitant entrance, she hastily pulled the sheet up over the baby and her breasts, and greeted her with pleasure and apologies that her tea would be late.

  Wallace Helena said it did not matter and sat down on the chair by the bed. ‘How are you?’ she asked, ‘And how’s the baby?’

  Tenderly, Elsie slipped back the sheet, so that her lodger could admire the crumpled red face of her first-born. Large, blank eyes stared back at her between folds of fat, and tiny lips moved uncertainly. ‘Would you like to hold ’im?’ Elsie asked, and she lifted the tiny bundle and held it out to Wallace Helena.

  Wallace Helena braced herself to take the weight without dropping the child – and was startled to find that it seemed to weigh almost nothing. She cradled the baby instinctively and looked down at the child’s fuzzy head. In less than six months, she thought with wonderment, I’ll be holding my own baby. And then a real fear that she would not know how to care for it struck her; she suddenly longed to ask Elsie to help her, show her what to do, prepare her for the advent of the child. And, if it’s born in the Territories, it’ll still be winter. What shall I do in that remorseless cold?

  Elsie’s voice broken in on her reverie. ‘Shall I take ’im back, Miss? He might spoil yer frock.’

  Wallace Helena forced a smile and handed the child back. She then proffered the parcels she had brought, and with one hand Elsie shook the presents out of their tissue paper. They’re lovely, Miss. Proper kind of you – but you shouldn’t have … you didn’t have to.’

  Wallace Helena told her it was a pleasure, and she was delighted to see mother and child so well. ‘Oh, aye,’ responded Elsie cheerfully, ‘I’ll be up and around a bit tomorrer, and the place won’t be in such a mess.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself out for my sake. Mrs Barnes has been most kind, and I’m sure from the nice smell coming up the stairs that Mrs Kelly is making something good.’

  ‘Oh, aye. I’ve wonderful neighbours. Most of them was in, some time or other, today; and they all brought a bite of food to help out – and some of their men’s out of work, an’ all.’

  ‘I’m glad they’re so kind.’ Wallace Helena made her farewells, and went downstairs, wondering who would come to her aid when her child was born.

  A perspiring Mrs Kelly was just coming out of the kitchen carrying a plateful of food, and Wallace Helena sat down to a dish of bacon and eggs, fried bread and fried cabbage, with a pile of bread on the side. Wallace Helena said it looked wonderful and ate the lot, while her brain searched for the best way to deal with her own child.

  Dr Biggs had said she should have a specialist available, because she was older. This meant, though, that she would have to be delivered in England. On the other hand, if she went home, Joe would probably marry her – or would he? And there would be only Aunt Theresa to help the baby into the world – unless Aunt Theresa knew someone at the Fort who was knowledge-able and would come.

  She had a bad night, and by morning she was still no further ahead. A crying baby did not help.

  She rose early and washed herself in cold water from the ewer in her room. When she went downstairs, John Fitzpatrick opened the kitchen door and looked a little alarmed. She put her finger to her lips and then said quietly, ‘I’m going for a little walk. Don’t worry about me.’

  John looked relieved. Thank you, Miss. I’m away to work in a minute, but Mrs Barnes’ll come to make your breakfast and help Elsie.’

  ‘Rough night?’

  A grin spread over his face. ‘A noisy one, Miss. I hope you weren’t bothered.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she smiled.

  She walked down to the slipway. Mist was clearing from the river and in places the sun dappled the water. People were already astir in the cottages, and a canary sang sweetly by an open window.

  She wondered what these fisherfolk would think if a black man came to live amongst them – or a black child. She was not certain of the answer, so she posed the question the other way. What would Joe feel like, hemmed in by cottages, docks, warehouses and manufactories? She knew the answer immediately.

  Unless he saw possibilities in it which she could not envisage, it would be like trying to cage an eagle from the Rocky Mountains; he would wilt and die. The baby as it grew up might make some sort of a place for itself. But not Joe.

  She realized that he was too old to change much. And why should he? Apart from being part-owner of a fairly successful homestead, he was well regarded in and around the Fort and among his Indian relations; his knowledge of Indian languages and his negotiating abilities were prized by both sides. Apart from that, he and Wallace Helena herself had lived in the district far longer than most of the inhabitants and had acquired a degree of wisdom in handling both livestock and crops in such an inclement climate; Joe was often asked for his advice.

  On the whole, she thought, Joe did not suffer too much from being black. She knew from the taunts she had received that it was his association with herself, a yellow woman, which put him at a disadvantage. Moreover, both she and her mother, being educated, considered themselves superior to ordinary folk; they weren’t humble like the Chinese labourers who worked on building the railway, she thought sarcastically.

  But, if she went home, what was she to do about the soapery? To sell it, she must somehow gain some time. And then she remembered Frisby, Dyke’s – the shop which Benji had mentioned.

  With sudden determination, she turned back towards her lodgings. Outside the house next door, two little girls had marked out the pavement ready for a game of hopscotch. She stopped, and asked if their mother would let them take a note to the Lady Lavender. Fingers in mouths, they said they didn’t know – they would ask her.

  A thin harridan in a dirty apron came out and said she didn’t want the girls straying. Her son would take it on his way to work, if that would suit the lady. Wallace Helena took her notebook out of her pocket and hastily scribbled a note to Mr Helliwell to say that she would not be in until ten-thirty. She tore out the page and addressed it. She gave it to the woman, together with a threepenny piece for the boy.

  After breakfast, she tidied herself and walked up to Park Road, where she caught a horse tram to town.

  She found Messrs Frisby, Dyke and Company at 58 Lord Street. She had never been inside such a large shop, and she paused before entering to look at a pretty display of dress materials in the window. Then, summoning up her courage, she approached the door. It was courteously opened for her from the inside by a white-whiskered shopwalker in a stiff white collar and a morning coat. He bent slightly towards her and asked if he could help her. She told him that she needed at least two dresses, and would like to be served by an older assistant.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Madam. Gowns and Mantles, Madam. Come this way.’

  It was early and the shop was not very busy. She noticed that all the young women dusting or arranging their displays wore skirts like she did, but the older ones looked quite fashionable in garments with fitted waists, modified bustles and an apronlike drapery at the front; such dresses were not going to offer much disguise for her present condition, she decided with some trepi
dation. They passed through a department selling scarves and handkerchiefs, and she was suddenly charmed by a tree of hankies being created by a young woman standing on a stepladder. She shook out each hanky and poked it into a metal frame. To Wallace Helena, the result was like a pine tree of white and pastel colours, and her tight lips curved in a little smile.

  Haberdashery was the only department that was so busy that the assistants could obviously hardly deal with the rush. All the customers were very young women, with swatches of material clutched in their hands. The shopwalker had paused, to make a way for her through the throng. ‘Who are these young women?’ Wallace Helena whispered.

  The old man smiled. ‘Dressmakers’ apprentices, Ma’am. Not well-mannered at all, Ma’am. They’re matching cottons and buttons and bindings for their employers.’ Faced with the back of a struggling girl, he said, ‘Now, Miss, make way,’ and with a scared look on her pale face, the girl stepped back, and Wallace Helena swept after her escort.

  He handed her over to a middle-aged lady neatly gowned in rusty black and with a velvet pincushion shiny with pins buttoned to her left wrist.

  Since Wallace Helena was not known to the shop she stated frankly that she was expecting and wanted some dresses to disguise the fact for as long as possible.

  The woman bowed slightly. ‘Of course, Madam. Madam will not wish to remain indoors longer than necessary. May I ask your name, Madam?’

  ‘M – Mrs Harding.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ She wrote the name down on a pad hanging with its attendant pencil from her waistband. To her, Wallace Helena did not look very prosperous, so she said, ‘We have a number of dresses made up, or partially made up – requiring only fitting and finishing. Our dressmaker can adjust anything to suit you. Or we can arrange for any pattern to be made up for you, in any material you desire?’