Mable Riley

by Marthe Jocelyn

“Mable, you need to be reminded of your responsibility here.” Her voice was as cold as ever I've heard it. “You will stay late with Elizabeth and perform extra duties in the classroom after lessons.”

  The children ducked their faces, pink with shame on my behalf. They were familiar with the dreadful feeling of awaiting a scolding. I could feel the eyes of the other scholars burning the back of my neck. I dared not look around to see what the boys might be thinking. I could only imagine the smirk on Elizabeth's face!

  I wished to stick out my tongue at Viola, to shout and stomp my feet, but instead told the children to open their Ontario Readers. We finished the hour in a humbled drone.

  “I'm sorry, miss,” whispered Ellen as she departed for home. “It's a very good poem, anyway.” I squeezed her hand and gave her a wink, so that she should not worry on my account.

  Naturally, I expected a rebuke from Viola but was not prepared for the tongue-lashing I received. She hardly waited for the scholars to depart before she began. I cannot bear to repeat it all here. The worst was her opinion of my compositions.

  “You call yourself an author? Ha! Childish rhymes that ridicule the family members of your own scholars! Poetry should be graceful; it should glorify flowers or nature or God. And here you are, teaching rubbish about snoring! Homemade ridiculous rhymes! You have been placed in a position of trust, and you have displayed yourself to be entirely unworthy of that trust. The only thing that stopped me from strapping you to-day was the thought of our poor mama. What if Mrs. Forrest should hear of this? Insulting her husband in the name of education?”

  On and on, more criticism for wasting time, for not obeying her instructions, for lacking talent …

  My head aches just thinking of it, those hurtful words pouring over me while Elizabeth watched from her desk. Finally, Viola slowed her tirade and assigned us a formidable list of chores. Elizabeth and I began without speaking, both of us intent on finishing as quickly as we could.

  At last there was left only the dull task of cutting strips of newspaper for use in the school privy. After asking Viola permission to work outdoors on the step, I imagined how peaceful it would be to send Elizabeth home.

  “I can do the job alone,” I said.

  “And take credit where I gain none?” Elizabeth pouted at the thought.

  “Come, then. There is one pair of scissors only. Would you like to fold or cut?”

  We agreed upon our system and set to work with no further discourse, until she said, “I know where you were on Sunday.”

  I felt a quick heat flush my neck. Is that why I had seen her in the road upon my return from Silver Lining? Had she followed me? I wished to chide her but bit my lip instead. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “It's not a secret,” I murmured, making certain through the door that my sister was well occupied at her desk. “It's thanks to you that I've ever been there at all.”

  “You've not told my aunt the extent of it.”

  “I deliver the loaves, do I not?”

  “Not always,” said Elizabeth. “I hid the one you left behind on Sunday, for fear we'd have to eat it otherwise.”

  I stared at her and then laughed aloud. She grinned. I knew now why she'd followed me.

  “Why should it matter if I keep company awhile?” I asked.

  Elizabeth sighed but continued in a whisper.

  “Have you been inside the cottage? Is it painted black within?”

  I laughed again and covered my mouth at once lest Viola hear.

  “Painted black? Of course not.” The naked flying lady was as pink skinned as Elizabeth. “Wherever did you hear such nonsense?”

  “From my mother. Mrs. Forrest told her.”

  “What gain is there in telling lies about Mrs. Rattle?” I asked.

  “I only wondered.” Elizabeth reached for another newspaper and began to cut.

  “It's true that Mrs. Rattle is an unusual woman,” I said. “But there is no gain in slander.” It hovered in my mind whether to state that I admired her beyond any other person. Instead, I made a plain reply. “She has the loveliest home I've ever seen. And nowhere did I see black.”

  Elizabeth studied me with an interest never before displayed.

  “Did you locate her missing husband? Or hear about her family? Is it true she is estranged from them because of her unsuitable convictions?”

  “That is not what she reports,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. If only she had reported anything to me! If only I knew the secrets held within her bosom!

  Viola coughed, startling us with a sound like a barking dog.

  “Do you not wish,” whispered Elizabeth, “that Mrs. Rattle could be your sister, replacing Miss Vile Riley?” She surprised me with a notion I had not yet had myself. As soon as it was spoken, I did wish it with all my heart.

  It occurred to me that despite Elizabeth's disagreeable disposition, she displays more intelligence than any other scholar in Sellerton. We have also in common our loathing of Viola. Can such a thing be the foundation of a friendship?

  Thinking to purchase an ounce of affection, I made a suggestion. “Elizabeth, I know a method for completing lines that will accomplish my sister's assignment in one-fourth the usual time.”

  She jumped to her feet with a bang, knocking our careful stack of privy papers into a storm of pamphlets. I jumped up myself, quite ready to scold her when I realized that Viola stood in the doorway. Elizabeth had created a distraction so that my plan should not be overheard! I crouched, giggling, to retrieve the papers and exchanged a look with her that sealed our conspiracy.

  We bid a curt goodbye to Viola and set out together for the first time. Behind the Campbells' stable, we stopped at a thick stump flat enough to serve as a writing desk. I showed her the trick taught to me by Jimmy Fender, who certainly deserved the prize last year for the most lines written in punishment. He devised a method of holding two pencils in one hand, placing the leads on adjacent lines and writing two sentences concurrently.

  “I shall do half the lines for you,” I explained. “If we practise, our scripts will be like enough. I'm sure she will not examine them closely.”

  We agreed to meet before school in the morning, so that I could pass on my contribution. I did most of them before I began my entry tonight but must finish up now so as not to break my word. I pray Viola will not discover our game, for that would end Elizabeth's trust in me before it has truly taken root. (I suppose it is wrong to use prayer in making deceit be successful. I did not intend to involve God, just resolve.)

  Though I have not decided yet to like Elizabeth, it is better by far to have her as a friend than to suffer the effects of her distemper.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 2

  It appears we have succeeded! Viola took the sheaf of papers from Elizabeth and handed them to me to count! I assured her it was a job well done, and she has not checked again that I can tell. Other than that, I have not spoken one word to Viola to-day but doubt that she has noticed. She is not speaking to me either.

  It was Mrs. Goodhand's supper that prompted the rhyme I wrote tonight. Before the meal, I had been mulling over the text and vocabulary for Lesson 6:

  How blessed are we with natures feast,

  Brought forth by sun and gentle rain.

  … and so on. I had not a poetic thought in mind. But as I poked my vegetables and gnawed the beef, I was inspired….

  The sun doth shine on natures feast

  And rain the earth doth feel,

  But by the fire

  'Tis cook's desire

  To ruin every meal.

  The beans are boiled till gray and limp,

  The meat is dry as dust.

  Potatoes lumpy,

  Custard bumpy,

  Yet blessings say, we must.

  LATER WEDNESDAY EVENING

  I made the mistake of leaving my rough copies of the above verse on the bureau top while I visited the privy. Viola came upon them and went into a dreadful pucker! Have
I not learned my lesson? What demon possesses me that I can write such wicked rhymes? (I confess, I shudder to think that Mrs. Goodhand might have chanced upon them, but I was spared that mortification.) Viola would not listen to reason, would not see the humour. She imagines we will be hurled into the Elgin Road with our trunks in the muddy ditch at our heels.

  “If ever again I find that you have defied me in this, Mable, I will have you scrubbing the schoolhouse floor until your fingers are too raw to hold a pencil!”

  I must take better care that she does not find my notes again!

  PART THE FIFTH

  {HELENA'S ESCAPE DISCOVERED}

  Meanwhile, Helena's homely sister had awakened in her enormous boudoir, to the sound of the bronze clapper falling repeatedly against the mahogany front door.

  “Whoever can that be?” Myrtle's voice was like that of a fearful piglet, high and wobbling. She wondered where her slovenly maid was hiding. (Myrtle's maid, Elizabeth, never expecting her mistress to awaken before ten o'clock, was behind the stable, flirting with the undergroom.)

  Hurriedly, Myrtle pulled on her robe (of a most unsuitable color) and scuttled down the stairs like a kitchen rat.

  “Why ever are you pounding on the door, you dreadful man?” Myrtle squinted viciously at the person hovering anxiously on the step. “Have you no respect for the noble family that sleeps within?”

  “It is that very respect that brings me here, miss,” said Mr. Edwards, the stationmaster. “Your sister is departed on the midnight train, led astray by a scoundrel.”

  “Are you intoxicated, fool?” chided Myrtle.

  “I've not taken a drink since me brother died of it, eight years ago,” said Mr. Edwards, his feelings hurt. “I saw what I saw. The Lady Helena boarded the 12:01 and she weren't alone. I'd rather have told your father, the earl, only I don't want to be breaking his heart.” With these sad words, Mr. Edwards turned away and trudged back over the snowy road, following his own tracks home.

  Myrtle closed the door more thoughtfully than she had opened it. Could it be true? Could her despised, angelic sister have taken so wrong a step? What good fortune was this! Helena the Perfect would now be cast out of the family, leaving the riches, the manor, and their father's love to Myrtle, and only Myrtle. Oh, happy day! How best to celebrate?

  “Elizabeth!” Myrtle called so loudly that the whining shriek reached even to the stable. The immoral maid hastened to pluck the straw from her hair as the undergroom leered at her rosy lips.

  “Come back when you've put your lady in the bath,” he said greedily. “I cannot wait until tonight for another taste of your kisses.”

  Elizabeth giggled and hurried away to do her mistress's bidding.

  “Where have you been, you lazy hussy?” demanded Myrtle, but not waiting for an answer, gave rapid orders. “Draw my bath, prepare the rose oil and dusting powder, display my favourite dresses for selection, and bring my breakfast immediately. I want four eggs, twelve griddlecakes with maple syrup, three currant scones with marmalade, a bowl of strawberries, and a pot of the finest China tea. You may also notify my father, the earl, that I request a special audience this morning.”

  “But, Lady –”

  “What?” Myrtle glared.

  “It's the dead of winter. There is no strawberries nowhere.”

  Myrtle's voice dropped to a chilling hiss. “I said strawberries.”

  To be continued …

  Ambler's Corner

  September 30, 1901

  My dear girls,

  When I am missing you most, I comfort myself that you have each other for company. Only that thought can gladden my heart.

  I am stealing a few moments to write while Teddy and Flossie do their schoolwork at the kitchen table next to me, sharing the lamp. Bea is in bed, and never was a mother happier to have a scrappy chick washed and sleeping. Without you two here to help, my evenings are endless: washing up, sweeping the kitchen (after Flossie has swept and spread the crumbs instead of gathering), kneading tomorrow's bread, scouring the hearth, filling the buckets, not to mention the parade of tired children resisting nightdresses, tooth powder, hairbrushes, face flannels, misplaced dollies, boots to wipe, pinafores to sponge, stories, and, finally, prayers.

  It is not the younger children who are keeping me up at night, however. … I refer to your brother Arthur and his fancy for a certain young lady. He is a fine boy, if I do say so myself, but to be blunt, we do not have the social standing that the Melbournes might expect for their Laura. I am worried that he will be cast aside after a few pleasant hours on their porch swing.

  The most a mother can hope for any of her children is that they are lucky enough to find a companion who will share a contented home.

  Until then, you have each other.

  Much love,

  Your mother

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4

  Finally a spelling bee to crow about, despite a bad beginning. We were lined up along the wall as usual. The little ones went first and each did well. So when Cathy made her error, I regretted not being close enough to pinch her.

  “Ooooh!” she wailed. “I meant to say it s-t-u-b-b-o-r-n, Miss Riley! Honestly, I did! My tongue just got confused and omitted the second b.”

  “Next time you'll take a moment to compose your tongue before speaking,” said Viola.

  Cathy stopped her noise with a gulp. “My mother will not be pleased,” she whispered.

  “Next word, Henry Brown. Dauntless. Can you spell dauntless?”

  Of course, Henry spelled it d-o-n and he was out. By a miracle, Joseph (on my team) made no error, nor did anyone but Cathy. The Cheerful Commas were cheerful indeed as we won the day!

  I have been giving mother's letter some thought. Her fancy that Viola and I are good companions to each other is so far from the truth that I know not whether to laugh or to hang my head in shame. It would be best if we were friends. What better than to have a confidante who has been witness to one's entire life? The trouble being, with Viola and me, that we are not confidantes. At present, I cannot spill the secrets of my heart for fear of a harsh laugh or an admonishment. Quite possibly she, too, has secrets that she does not share with me (though I cannot imagine what!).

  I wish that Viola were a more laudable person, like Mrs. Rattle, that I might emulate her example and be praised instead of chastized for my efforts. I feel bursting in my skin and cannot wait until Sunday to go once more to Silver Lining.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5

  I found myself following Alfred about the barn this evening like a puppy after the butcher's boy. I tried to moan about Viola, but Alfred would hear no complaints.

  “You're a lucky girl to have such a fine sister,” he said, scooping pitchforkfuls of hay into the cattle stalls. “My own sister, Thora? Her husband inherited a farm in Manitoba so they live four hundred miles away. She has two children I've never met.”

  “That would suit me just fine,” I grumbled.

  He paused to wipe the sweat from his red face with the back of his hand. “Family is the best thing we have on this earth. Your mother shows courage in letting her daughters go off into the world to make a life for themselves. You'd best make the best of it. She doubtless feels more than four hands short without the two of you.”

  “That's true,” I said. But Alfred was distracted.

  “Will you scoot into the kitchen and bring me the pan of water boiling on the stove?” he asked. “Tildie here has managed to get a wedge lodged in her leg. I need to pull it out.” He slapped the side of one of the cows.

  When I returned, carefully balancing the hot iron pot with both hands in oven mittens, Alfred had led the cow out of her stall and set up a stool next to her.

  “She must have scraped up against something,” he said. “There's a bit of a gash. See here? You see that tip? That's a piece of fence post or tree branch, maybe.” He soaped his hands and rinsed them and washed the cow's wound with warm suds.

  “Lucky it's a foreleg,” he murmure
d. “Less chance of getting myself kicked. You can help, if you would, Mable. Keep stroking her. Whisper a bit, keep her calm.”

  After a minute or two of nonsense, I could not think what to say to a cow so I repeated the Lord's Prayer in the most soothing tone I could muster. I was riveted by Alfred's fingers, which look so thick and freckly normally and now were transformed into deft tools. He gently spread the opening with one hand and grasped the object, using a small pair of pliers. Tildie bellowed and stamped.

  “Thy will be done on earth,” I whispered, “as it is in Heaven.”

  “Ha!” cried Alfred. “Got it!” He pulled out the pliers, gripping an oversize splinter of bloodied wood. “Pass me that jug of witch hazel, would you?”

  He poured it over the wound and wrapped a strip of cotton around the leg. “Good girl,” he said, giving Tildie a rub between the ears. “Milking time!” He led her back to the stall and sat down again with the pail between his feet and his forehead pressed into the cow's side. She mooed, and shortly the lowing echoed up and down the barn.

  “Do you milk all twenty cows by yourself?” I asked.

  Alfred chuckled. “I'd never get in to supper if I did that. My father will be along in a minute, and we'll have our usual race.” He began to gently knead the cow's teats.

  The barn door creaked and the light shifted as Mr. Goodhand came in carrying two silver milk pails.

  “Huh,” he grunted. Perhaps he thought he said hello. I jumped to my feet as he scowled. “Milking time is not social time, Mable. I'm sure Mrs. Goodhand could use your help in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And I was off, with a quick wink from Alfred to see me across the yard. I tried to imagine what he might be like in thirty years. Will he lose his good cheer and become a gruff old man like his father?

  Later, as we were clearing the table after supper, Elizabeth and Mrs. Campbell hurried in.

  “Have you had a letter from Mother?” Mrs. Campbell asked Mrs. Goodhand, not even sitting down before she spoke.