The Daughters' Story

by Cyr, Murielle;

  Timothy made sure Stella was sound asleep before slipping off to meet his mates. He’d wait on the wooden bench by her bed until her breathing was slow and regular. Sometimes he dozed off and only came to when her nightmare had taken over. He’d reach over to massage her back, as Michael had advised him to, till the monsters left her for the night.

  Stella loved that faint burnt smell that clung to Timothy’s skin and hair. The same odour of motor oil that permeated the air in the flat when her father came home. It lingered even after hours of soaking Michael’s work clothes in an old metal basin on the back porch. Scrubbing them till her knuckles turned blood red didn’t help it go away. The smell of the men in her life gave her a secure feeling of being part of their world.

  Baby powder, she had heard, helped remove the stubborn grease on his shirts and pants. A few trials with the smooth velvety powder and the skin of her hands regained the pale ivory shade of her Irish ancestors. She emptied David’s leftover orange and white tin of Johnson’s Baby Powder into the cracks of the floorboards to stop them from creaking at night. And along the door frames and window sills to stop the army of black ants from invading the flat in hot weather.

  When Michael saw how excited she was about this magical white powder, he asked Timothy to pick up a case on his next run to Toronto. With the arrival of the cold season, she’d hang her father’s work clothes to dry on the clothesline beside the stove in the kitchen. The heat rose from the stove, spreading the faint odour of oil and grease from his clothes throughout the whole flat. She felt safe and protected then, knowing no harm would come to her and little David.

  Timothy watched her grow from a skinny blond girl too shy to look him straight in the eye into a beautiful young woman. She had sprouted tight round breasts which dug into his chest when he hugged her goodnight. Gone were the girlish blond braids. She now kept her thick curls shoulder length like the models in the fashion magazines he brought her. He had completed his conductor training for the CPR at the time, and when passengers left their magazines behind, he saved them for Stella. They’d leaf through them together and he’d choose the dresses he imagined she’d look best in. His choices made her giggle. She’d never dare go out in such skimpy outfits. Her father would go to an early grave if he ever saw her step out wearing so little. And then there was Father Murphy—he’d excommunicate her before she got halfway up the church steps.

  Timothy was strong and virile with thick dark hair brushed back from his forehead and a thin moustache outlining his full mouth. He always had a smile with a ready compliment for her. His visits left her with a feeling of giddiness, bringing back the Irish love songs her mother always used to sing. On her fourteenth birthday, he kissed her on the lips and held her close. She stepped back and lowered her head. He stared at her, his arms limp by his side. After a long moment, he spun round and reached for his coat.

  She snapped her head up. “You’re going—”

  “It’s best—you tell your father everything.”

  She didn’t answer so he rushed out the front door.

  He waited for a confrontation with her father. Two weeks later, Michael’s behaviour towards him at work still wasn’t any different than usual. Timothy figured Stella hadn’t said anything and decided it was safe to see her again. That night, he sat by her bed as he always did and waited for her to fall asleep. He was meeting a friend later in the Red Light district in the east end of the city. But Stella’s demons invaded her sleep again. She tossed and turned, throwing her blanket off. He reached out to massage her back.

  Her breathing calmed right away and she let out a low moan. His pulse quickened at the sound and he continued massaging lower down her back. Before he knew it, his hand glided to the warm region between her legs. She mumbled his name, and still asleep, nudged his hand away. He sat back on his bench, all his senses alive, and waited for the blood surging through him to slow down before he left. The full moon filtered through the narrow window above her bed, outlining her firm nipples pushing through the thin cotton nightdress. He knew she’d never tell and wondered if she had really been asleep while his hand wandered to the sacred warmth of her young body.

  He stayed away close to a month. The sweet smell of the baby powder she sprinkled on her sheets every night to ward off bad dreams followed him everywhere. When he thought of the silkiness of her skin, a deep ache took over his lower body that kept him awake even with the double shifts he was doing to avoid seeing her. He lost his appetite for his mother’s cooking and dark black rings formed under his eyes. She made a last-ditch effort to figure out what evil had befallen her son, who had never before refused her shepherd’s pie.

  “Why is there a pile of women’s fashion magazines by your bed?” She pointed to his cot beside the coal stove. He leaned down to swoop the pile up and marched down the street, lured by the girl whose magical talcum powder had cast a spell on him.

  Stella hadn’t told her father about the kiss but had confessed to Father Murphy after Sunday Mass. Michael waited for her with young David in the crowd of locals catching up on gossip in front of St. Ann’s Church.

  “Don’t let it happen again.” The priest slammed down the window of the confessional. “Not before your father consents to have the marriage banns read on three consecutive Sundays during Mass.”

  Timothy assured her that he’d respect the priest’s advice and they didn’t kiss again. He continued to look after her when the nightmares assaulted her body at night. She got used to the roughness of his hand on her skin. She’d sometimes lay awake listening to the different staccato bursts of his breath as he explored the intimate parts of her body.

  One night she woke spread-eagled and gasping from another horrific nightmare. She had just escaped the claws of a headless zombie with swarms of green worms spurting out of its festering neck. Timothy’s body stretched over hers like a long covered bridge, balancing his weight inches above her on his elbows and knees. He looked so big and strong—the hero come to protect her from all her monsters.

  The heat from his body was so intense her loins rose like a magnet to meet his. His moist breath transformed into mist in her hair. His hardness rubbed against her, probing her upper thighs and the soft area between her legs until he fumbled his way inside her. A cry of panic escaped from her. He pressed his hand over her mouth so as not to wake young David and pushed deeper. His frantic thrusts felt like sandpaper scraping against the tender walls within her. Burning spasms of pain shot up from her loins straight to her heart. His body shook and he collapsed, gasping and sweating on top of her. He promised her it would be better next time.

  The pain became more tolerable after he brought her back a jar of Vaseline Wonder Jelly. He made sure she kept it hidden in her socks and underwear drawer. His hardness was still too large for the taut entrance to her young girl’s body. But she needed him to always come back to her. She squinted her eyes and bit her lip each time he reached inside her underwear drawer for the jar of petroleum jelly. They had followed Father Murphy’s orders about the kissing, but Stella would’ve preferred to disobey that rule and not take part in the rest.

  Two months after her sixteenth birthday she told him she heard the swishing of water inside of her. At times she felt a distant thud as little feet danced beneath her rib cage. He stopped visiting as often, needing to figure out what to do next. He had noticed the change in that angular girlish body he loved so much. Her breasts had swollen, her hips had widened, and her concave belly had started to inch outwards. Marriage seemed the only option if he didn’t want his whole family, as well as the relatives back in Ireland, to turn their backs on him. Stella’s father was a well-respected mechanic at work, and Timothy had worked hard to get to the position of conductor. His job required he abide by high moral standards of conduct. One negative word from Michael was all that was needed for his co-workers to have nothing to do with him.

  He loved stepping onto the platform of the
train station each day. His energy level soared knowing he was the one in control. His duties kept him scurrying back and forth through the series of railway cars from the time he slammed the door closed when the train took off till the moment he pulled it open again when they arrived at their destination. His job was to make sure the train ran on schedule. Check that the proper signals were on the train and that employees followed safety rules. Complete all paperwork as well as the train travel log. Board the passengers on time and punch their tickets. Make sure the passengers were comfortable. Check for items left behind and report unnecessary delays and cancellations. He was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He never refused a double shift, nor the Montreal-Vancouver run, which kept him away from home almost two weeks at a time.

  He loved the grease and hot oil smells. The chuffing sounds of the engine. The lonely moan of the whistle as the train trailed its cloud of steam into the approaching station. He most enjoyed strolling through the cars looking out for any young girl clutching the ticket her parents had warned her not to lose. She was, in most cases, travelling alone to visit an aunt who needed help with the housework, or maybe to join another member of her family. He checked her ticket and offered to show her the caboose—the only place on the train with great views of the countryside, he’d tell her. Spurred by the tall, handsome man in the dark blue uniform, she always followed. The girl was happy to see something of interest on this boring, uncomfortable ride.

  The caboose car consisted of the conductor’s desk, a tiny cooking area, and sleeping bunks for the crew. Metal steps led to an elevated platform with a windowed cupola and a fixed seat used by the crew to supervise the back of the train. Timothy guided the young girl up the rickety steps and held her down on his lap with a tight grip. He didn’t want her tumbling off the bench if the train happened to go down a steep hill. He pointed to the various points of interest that flashed by them, his voice rasping with excitement. Vibrations from the engine’s rods and pistons, as well as the unexplained bumping beneath her, sometimes caused her to bolt down the steps.

  A conductor’s job was secure and sought-after. Any smear on Timothy’s reputation as a reputable employee and a devoted family man might affect his position. They married the first Saturday in May after the reading of the wedding banns. She clutched a large bouquet of flowers close to her belly. Her father marched her up the church aisle, and with a look of anguished resignation, handed her over to the man he had once trusted with his own life.

  The old neighbourhood of Griffintown—where the sweet-sounding Gaelic language had once been spoken on the streets—wasn’t the best place to start a new family. It had become a manufacturing slum.

  Timothy’s generation now had electric tramways and weren’t obliged to live within walking distance of their work. The poor and the elderly still clung to their decrepit wooden housing, reluctant to stray too far from the protection of St. Ann’s Catholic Church. Some dwellings near the waterfront still had outdoor toilets, and basement or ground-floor flats continued to be flooded each spring by the St. Lawrence River.

  Irish and French-Canadian children—whose parents shared the same religion and held on to the same distrust of anything British—fought daily for a spot to play in alleys between factories, breweries and machine shops. Toxic coal fumes from the huge chimneys spewing black smoke day and night added tuberculosis to Stella’s growing list of worries for their unborn child. Timothy left behind what had once been a refuge for his Irish ancestors fleeing the disastrous Great Famine and moved to a healthier and cleaner place to live.

  Timothy’s steady employment with the CPR allowed him to rent a spacious flat with a small backyard in Verdun, away from the railways and factories. He moved Stella’s few belongings, including her large pile of fashion magazines. Often called to do double shifts, including the Montreal-Vancouver runs, he no longer had time to leaf through magazines with her. She started using the older editions to light her stove in the morning. The latest fashions inspired her to create her own designs on the back of the brown paper used to wrap the meat and cheese she bought at the market. She cut out the shapes of the fashion models she liked in the magazines and pinned them up, at first on the kitchen wall and later on the inside wall of the pantry. Timothy had objected to paper bodies staring at him while he ate. She’d open the pantry door as soon as he left for work and sip her tea, imagining herself wearing the same outfits as her models. They became her loyal confidantes.

  Peter was born five months after the wedding, in October 1912. Denis followed on Christmas Eve of the next year, and John came eleven months after that. Back-to-back pregnancies had drained Stella. A pungent smell of urine-soaked diapers overpowered the familiar odour of motor oil. Timothy stayed away often, signing up for all available overtime.

  Three months before John was born, England declared war on Germany, and Canada was pulled into the fray. Shiploads of Canadian soldiers were sent to England’s defence. Married men with a family weren’t expected to enlist yet, but Timothy packed his duffle bag and whistled a happy tune. A few complaints had been circulating at work about him inviting female passengers to the caboose while on duty. Volunteering to fight overseas was a sure way of sprucing up his reputation. A well-deserved break from the constant holler of babies and the smell of curdled milk and urine was much needed. His mother agreed to give his wife a hand when he sailed off to England with the First Canadian Contingent in October. His two younger brothers followed him overseas with the 199th Regiment of Irish Canadian Rangers.

  Timothy hopped on the train heading east to the new Valcartier training camp north of Quebec City—his first time travelling as a passenger. Stella sprinkled more baby powder on the floorboards in the flat and hung a large crucifix on the door leading down to the cellar. She braced herself for more footfalls and swore never to open that door till Timothy came back. She vowed to do her household chores during the dark hours of the night and sleep when the boys napped in the afternoons.

  She remembered how her father had tried without success to fend off her fears when she was a child by keeping her hair short and dressing her up as a boy. For a while after, Timothy’s caresses had kept them at bay during the years her girl’s body transformed into womanhood.

  Timothy needed complete darkness for him to sleep. But darkness beckoned the footfalls, approaching even when he was snoring beside her. She’d inch over in the bed till she was close enough for her body heat to blend with his. His energy infused hers and, like an aura of protection, surrounded every inch of her. The footfalls stopped then. Unless her heart was about to burst through her chest, she tried not to sap too much of his energy. He’d notice his loss in the morning and accuse her of being selfish by hogging the bed, putting his job at risk.

  “A man needs all his energy to be in charge of the train. I’m responsible for the lives of my passengers. Not like you, staying home and napping any old time, even at Sunday Mass.”

  He hated when she woke up screaming during the night. “Keep it down. The neighbours will think I’m beating you.”

  During their three years of marriage before the war, he assumed that carnal desires drove her to touch him during the night. He’d clamber on top of her, even with an unborn baby kicking the walls of her swollen belly. Half asleep and disoriented, he’d pry her legs open and blunder his way inside her before collapsing on his side. But it was only the warmth she craved. She learned after a while that touching him wasn’t necessary to ease her fears. Edging as close as possible till she felt that aura of heat radiating from his body was enough.

  If the children cried in the night while Timothy was overseas, she’d tuck them in beside her in bed. All three boys sometimes ended up nestled against her skin, their body warmth circulating around her like a protective stream. Her motherhood awakened a courage that allowed her to, if not conquer, at least face her nightly fears. The footfalls never approached the basement door when the babies slept
beside her. They became her talismans. She’d never leave the house without them nor ever let them out of her sight.

  That all stopped when Timothy came home in 1919. He was strict about the boys sleeping in their own beds no matter how loudly they wailed. After the war, touching Timothy while he slept didn’t trigger the same reaction from him as in the early days. Three consecutive pregnancies had left her with swollen breasts and stretch marks on her hips and stomach. A rounded figure hid that girlish body he had once hungered for.

  Another pregnancy could be the end of her, the doctor warned Timothy. He advised him to disregard Father Murphy’s insistence that she give birth every year as prescribed by the church. Timothy heeded the doctor’s advice. Stella was now a woman and didn’t need the attention he used to give her when she was only a girl. He had given her and the Church three healthy sons.

  “If you consider the wife I have to deal with,” he confessed to Father Murphy, “I’ve fulfilled my duty as a good Catholic family man.”

  The priest agreed with Timothy, who was, after all, a good breadwinner and a generous contributor to the collection plate. But he forbade Stella from receiving the holy sacraments. By not seeing to her husband’s matrimonial rights, she wasn’t living up to her Catholic faith. She avoided Sunday Mass after that, only sitting in the family pew on the rare times Timothy wasn’t called into work.

  The mustard and chlorine gases used during the war had clung to and weakened the soft, moist areas of Timothy’s eyes, groin, lungs, and nose. He came back wearing dark-rimmed glasses. His snoring was so loud on the pillow beside her that sleep didn’t come to her even with the aid of the strongest sleeping potions. Sunlight allowed her a few short naps between chores, but it wasn’t enough. The doctor refused to renew her prescription when he discovered her heart condition.