“I beg your pardon?”
“It means, you cannot purchase alcohol of any description.”
“That's ridiculous.” Grace slumped onto the packing case opposite. “You’re teasing me, aren't you? You must be.” Her chest constricted at the thought of her plans crumbling in front of her.
“I'm afraid not.” Maud grimaced. “Families were being destroyed by men who spent all their wages on drink. The Scott Act made the Island dry twenty-five years ago but didn’t include Charlottetown until five years later. The whole island is dry now and the provincial government employs inspectors who constantly check the law is being upheld.”
“I cannot believe it!” Grace covered her face with her hands and stared at Maud through her fingers. “Why did I not know selling alcohol was illegal?”
“You can buy it from a druggist, but you’ll need a medical certificate.”
“Drink as a medicine?” Grace widened her eyes, although she recalled their doctor in Hampstead prescribed brandy as a restorative for her guardian’s low blood pressure.
Maud shrugged. “Certain complaints are relieved with it, though I’m not sure what those are. Wine is allowed for communions, of course.”
“I’ll wager the church attendances are pretty regular,” Grace muttered. In response to Maud’s frown she shook her head. It also explained Mr Keogh’s comment about possessing a certificate. “I don't understand. I was a guest on a private boat from Halifax where the stewards served us champagne and wine with meals.” The men also drank brandy and whisky if she recalled.
“Strictly speaking you were still outside the Island, and being a private boat would make a difference, I imagine. Even a postmistress from Cavendish knows the lives of the wealthy are very different from those of everyone else. I imagine your host keeps a private supply, whereas the less affluent tend to rely on the services of bootleggers.”
“Bootleggers?”
“Um.” Maud lowered her voice though there was no one to overhear her. “Not everyone embraces abstinence. Their supplies come from unregulated sources.”
“You mean smugglers?”
“Let me put it this way.” Maud eased closer. “If you happen to be walking near a beach after sundown, you’ll often see a line of lanterns bobbing in the fields close to one of the coastal farms. The rum runners bring the stuff ashore from small boats in kegs which are hidden in the grain stooks to be picked up later. Not that I know who they are, of course, I would never get involved in such activity but even I’m aware it goes on. The contents of the kegs are emptied into bottles and sold to people who gather in their backrooms to drink in private. My Uncle John calls them ‘Blind Pigs’. If you ever hear someone order cold tea, that’s what they are asking for.”
“Oh, good grief.” That explained Mrs Mahoney’s Church Socials, she was running a drinking den in the basement.
“Grace,” Maude rested her crossed forearms on her knees and bent closer, her eyes bright. “Do tell me about this private boat you arrived on. I gather it didn’t bring you all the way from England?”
“Er no. I came as far as Halifax on the SS Parisian.”
“My goodness! That’s the ship which was holed in the harbour by that German ship.” At Grace’s surprised look she added, “I devour all the newspapers when they come into the post office. I read all about it.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story one day. For now I have to work out what to do about this drink ban. I can’t afford to become involved in anything illegal. What about my restaurant? No one is going to pay good rates for homemade lemonade. I was relying on wine and spirit sales to boost my income. What shall I do now?”
“It doesn’t have to be a disaster.” Maud switched seats and came to sit beside her, an arm around Grace’s shoulders. “Why not use one of the smaller rooms at the front as a dining room exclusive for residents only. Then this room which leads to the garden could be an English tea room. If you open it to the public, you'll generate more income.”
“A tea room?” Grace frowned. “Would the townsfolk patronise something like that?”
“I’m sure they would. The ladies especially. It would be somewhere for them to go after shopping expeditions, or to meet their friends.”
“You know, I think you have something.” Grace stared off through the window to the dilapidated terrace. “I could place some flower covered trellises set in alcoves beneath the trees for shade and privacy. Perhaps a Baroque style fountain would go beautifully in the center with the tables radiating from there. I could serve afternoon tea outside in summer and inside in winter.”
“There, you see, Grace. You've taken my simple idea and injected it with inspiration.” Maud squeezed Grace’s shoulders. “It cannot fail, I’m sure.”
“It mustn’t. I’ve sunk most of what I have into this enterprise. And thank you, Maud. I'm not going to let some law devised by a group of pious women discourage me.”
“I admire your spirit, Grace, but it wouldn’t do to upset the WCTU. They’re very influential. Who do you think campaigned to have the Scott Act passed in the first place? Their patronage will be useful out of season when the strait is frozen. Unless you intend going somewhere warm for the winters?”
“That’s beyond my means at the moment, but it’s definitely something to aspire to.”
“Then don't slander the pious women.” Maud pouted. “They could turn out to be your best customers.”
“I hadn't thought of that.”
Maud slid off the packing case and smoothed down her skirt. “Time is getting on and I must go. Uncle John will be waiting for me at the Market Hall.”
“You will come back though, won’t you?” The notion of her first real friend disappearing to the northern coast never to be seen again left her bereft. “You must return to see the hotel when it’s finished.”
“My time is pretty much taken up at the post office and with grandmother, so it’s not easy for me to get away. You cannot work all the time, and perhaps you could visit me in Cavendish? The north coast is truly beautiful. The landscape there lifts one’s spirits.”
“You make it sound appealing.”
“It is. We’ll make a pact. In the heat of summer when you yearn for cool breezes and wide open spaces, you must come and stay with me. In the meantime, we’ll write to one another. I love writing letters almost as much as I do my stories.”
“It will give me something to look forward to.”
Grace locked the front door behind them, and with the roll of drawings tucked beneath her arm, they walked together as far as the next corner, where they parted company with affection and promises, as if they had known each other for years. She strode back to Mrs Mahoney's with a lighter heart at having made a new friend. With Maud’s vision, her business venture was taking shape, prohibition notwithstanding.
Chapter 14
As a result of Mr Hill’s diligent work, Grace became the legal owner of the Prince Street house within a week of her first seeing it. She occupied the following days with the practical aspects of converting it into the exclusive hotel she dreamed of. John Cahill's recommendations acted like magic on builders and tradesmen who produced, what up until that moment she had only seen inside her head, all delivered in good time and to exact specifications.
The wind from the sea lost its icy chill and the days grew warmer. The insects, midges or no-see-ums Grace was warned about came out in force in the month of May and the lemon oil came in useful to soothe the bites which appeared on her ankles and shins. She started wearing fine stockings at night which seemed to help as, once the first crop had gone, she wasn’t bothered much after that. She heard somewhere they could not fly in breezes, so she kept the fan on in her room. She also learned not to walk too close to shrubs due to the fact they liked the moist under sides of leaves.
But the lemon oil Mrs M provided proved ineffective against the soreness of mosquito bites, so Grace reverted to white vinegar, which not only stung but smelled awful. Reluctantly, sh
e avoided perfume during the warm, dry days, consigning her favorite lavender soap to a drawer. She was willing to try anything and made copious notes on various remedies in a leather bound journal bought for the occasion. There was so much to remember about life in this unfamiliar country.
“I keep those mossies down by pouring a few drops of cinnamon or lemon oil on the water butts and pond each summer,” Mrs M told her. “Discourages them for a few summers, and the critters go elsewhere to breed. They can’t breathe through the oil, you see. We haven’t been bothered much these last few summers, but you can't avoid the odd one or two in the warmer evenings.”
“It’s much worse inland,” Marge laughingly said when Grace complained of several bites on her shins that appeared like magic one morning.
When Grace felt almost comfortable dealing with the odd mosquito bite and learned not to panic at the sight of all flying things, the dreaded blackflies arrived. She had never experienced anything like them. Larger than an ordinary fly, she became convinced these fat, fast, noisy creatures possessed a malicious character with their sharp bites which turned sore, itchy and painful for days.
Grace’s daily walk to supervise progress on the house grew more exciting. Windows, verandas and fences were replaced, plumbing renewed, and bathrooms constructed adjacent to every bedroom. A magnificent range installed in the kitchen. The overgrown garden was cleared, including the removal of the old porcelain sink. With the hard labor of four men working long hours a patio, brick pathways and a lawn emerged from the chaos.
She arrived one morning to find workmen with trickles of blood on their foreheads, arms and shoulders which they did not bother to wipe away. When she asked after them, they responded with blithe unconcern, and mild surprise.
“Pesky blackflies, but they’ll be gone by June,” she was told airily.
Her bank account dwindled in direct proportion to the number of tradesmen's carts arriving every day to disgorge furniture, crockery, linens, lighting and carpets, all forming untidy piles amongst builder's materials, tools and ladders.
In the lighter evenings, she replied to Maud’s letters, the first of which arrived two days after their first meeting. Maud’s neat script filled the pages with a description of her trip home to Cavendish on bumpy roads on a buggy with hard suspension and a squeaky wheel which drove her to distraction. Grace detected a note of dismay at the part which said she had taken up her duties as nurse and housekeeper to her grandmother, as well as postmistress, with only her role as church organist on Sundays to break the tedium.
“I think of our lovely day together often now all I have to brighten the hours is my daily stroll down ‘Lover’s Lane’ towards Cavendish Road and across the fields to the sea. How I love this place, and how ungracious of me to complain when I have the good fortune to call this my home and now have you to write to, my dear Grace.”
Grace sat over a blank page for a long time compiling a response to match Maud's eloquent prose, but all she was able to produce was a laundry list of tasks she had completed at the hotel and how much more there was yet to do.
Mrs M's enquiries as to what Grace did with her spare time became more difficult to answer. She had exhausted all the more interesting areas of Charlottetown and reverted to describing the churches and the market hall.
The questioning became less intrusive with the boarding house filled to capacity after Easter with what Mrs M referred to as her 'regulars'; the travelling salesmen who spent the spring and summer on the Island, arranging orders for old clients and establishing new ones.
Their constant demands created a buzz of activity which left Marge flustered and threatening to quit. The refrain, 'There's only one of me ya know,' echoed through the halls at all times of the day.
Grace shared the bathroom with a ferrety looking man called Timmins, who described himself as 'dealing in ladies’ accoutrements'. He disguised his non-existent top lip with an outsized moustache that made Grace smile every time she saw him. Their contact was scant, apart from the time she mistakenly thought the bathroom was empty and came upon him bare-chested and in long johns. Fortunately, he had his back turned and she managed to close the door silently before he saw her.
“I hope it’s still convenient to have me staying, Mrs M,” Grace said after Marge revealed Grace’s room was usually allocated to two guests due to the vast double bed it contained.
“That's quite all right dear, it's nice to have a lady to talk to apart from Marge. The men need more looking after than you do, what with all the mess they make of their rooms.”
Maud’s explanation of ‘blind pigs’ in basements provided Grace with a source of private amusement she chose not to share with her landlady.
“Another church social this evening, Mrs M?” Grace called over the bannister when she came upon her carrying a loaded tray down to the basement room.
“Only a small one this evening, dear.” Mrs M flushed and hurried away, leaving Grace smiling at the way her untidy bun bobbed up and down on her head.
In response to a note delivered to the boarding house one morning, Grace set off for Wright’s store. The wallpaper she ordered from Montreal had finally arrived and she wanted to inspect it before it was collected by the workmen and taken to the house. She set off under a warm spring sky free of clouds, dressed in a crisp white blouse and lilac walking skirt with a deep pleat at the back: a new straw boater trailed a matching mauve ribbon. A black belt encircled her waist which though small and fashionable, might never be as tiny as Maud's. She occasionally checked her reflection in shop windows, pleased with what she saw, her steps lightened by the warmer day with no need of her heavy wool coat.
Grace entered Haszard and Moore’s, from whom she had ordered a book Maud recommended in her latest letter, described with an enthusiasm Grace now recognized.
“I have discovered a wonderful book which you must read. I know nothing of the author as it was published anonymously, but it has been hailed a success. You must read it, so we may talk about her anecdotal musings next time we meet. Elizabeth expresses her longing to be left alone by a judgemental society so eloquently and with humour. I understand her so well, and I am convinced you will too.”
The young assistant spotted her when she entered the shop and raised his hand to catch her attention. “Ah, Mrs MacKinnon. That book you ordered came in yesterday.” He disappeared briefly into a back room, returning with a slim volume bound in white cloth with the title in gold script which he handed her. “We've had a few requests for this one, though the author is something of an enigma.”
“I'm looking forward to reading it.” Grace tucked the book inside her bag, thanked him effusively and left the shop.
With her prize tucked into her bag, she called into Carter’s Confectionery for a paper cone of humbugs. Unable to resist, she popped one into her mouth as she left the shop. The cloying sweetness reminded her of her childhood when she and Frederick would send a maid to fetch some from the tobacconists at the end of the road. Swearing the maid to secrecy, they would take them to a corner of the garden and share the sticky black and white confections.
Her smile deepened as she strode along, responding with polite greetings to those with an inclination to smile back, and some who were not.
Her steps slowed as an immaculate black carriage, drawn by two matched chestnuts with excellent conformation, pulled up beside her. Decals decorated the crimson trimmed door panels fitted with bevelled, slightly greenish glass windows. She paused to admire it but when the door swung open and Andrew Jardine stepped onto the road in front of her, her heart lurched. “Good morning, Mrs MacKinnon.” He removed his hat and offered a polite bow.
She swallowed the remains of her humbug. The lump of candy stuck in her throat, making her cough to clear it before she made a complete fool of herself.
“Mr Jardine.” She attributed the sudden leap of her heart to the unexpectedness of seeing him, bringing a hand to her neck to hide a blackfly bite she had discovered that morning.<
br />
How long had it been? Six weeks? And still she found difficulty breathing in his presence. It galled her to admit it, but she’d been unable to look at any man since without searching for that streak of white at the left temple and, when it was absent, a shaft of disappointment always ran through her. And now, without warning, there it was.
“I-uh see what you mean about hired hansoms not being your usual mode of transport.” She nodded towards the carriage she vaguely recalled from her visit to the Cahill's.
“Ah yes. Quite.” He followed her gaze briefly. “I hope you’re well, and that life is proving interesting for you in Charlottetown?”
“How kind. But then you might have enquired before now, Mr Jardine. After all, you knew where I was staying.”
“I didn't wish to intrude.”
“I see.” Intrude? A polite call on an acquaintance was hardly intruding.
“Actually, you don't.” He twisted his hat in both hands. “I uh-” He broke off as a passer-by offered an aggrieved scowl at the open carriage door. Jardine held up a hand as a signal for her to wait, slammed the door shut and nodded to the coachman, with a brusque, “Meet me at Market Hall in an hour.”
The driver saluted, flicked the reins and urged the horses to draw the carriage into light traffic.
“On the contrary, Mr Jardine, I do see,” Grace said when the carriage disappeared along the quiet street. “We had a very pleasant trip together on the Elizabeth, but you have a life you had to go back to. Mr Cahill, however has been incredibly kind and has helped me a lot recently.”
“So he has informed me. You have embarked on a new venture. A hotel no less?” Was that sarcasm or scepticism she heard in his voice? “But then I doubted you would settle for an easy life in a lowly position. Regardless of Emily's suggestions.”
Ah yes, Emily. She wondered how long it would take him to mention her.
Envy the Wind Page 15
