Far From Home

by Nellie P. Strowbridge

  “She’s brought home a cat!” John exclaimed, his eyes wide.

  Behind him, her parents smiled. Clarissa stared at them. She wished she could have cried Momma, like her doll had inside her bag, – cried Momma and gone straight into her mother’s arms. But then her mother’s voice floated on the air like music: “Welcome home.” Her father echoed his wife’s words with a glad look.

  “I – I thought – you would be old – older,” Clarissa stammered. She had pictured her parents as having wrinkles and grey hair. Instead, her father’s face was smooth and fair, his hair blond below a cap that looked like a large ose egg perched on the crown of his head. Her mother was dark-haired and beautiful. Clarissa hoped that when she grew up she would be an exact copy of the woman standing in front of her.

  As Clarissa and her family made their way along dusty Station Road, squawking crows lollied across the sky. John went ahead with Clarissa’s bag while her parents stopped to wait as Clarissa crossed the train track. She did this carefully, making sure her crutches didn’t catch in the track ties. “Take your time,” her father said gently. Her mother looked at her with an encouraging nod. They both stayed in line with Clarissa as she hopped up the road. They followed John, turning down a gravelled path to a white, two-storey house surrounded by trees. Clarissa’s heart felt as if it was going to lift out of her into the clouds, and leave the rest of her in a swoon on the ground. She leaned on her crutches and breathed in the sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle.

  “I’m Charlie,” a young boy called as he hurried around the corner of the house, his face stretched in a grin. When he saw Clarissa’s crutches, he shooed away sheep that were running up from the meadow. He stayed close to his sister until she reached the veranda.

  John shifted Clarissa’s bag and eyed her self-consciously. “I’m next to you. I was born the year after you went away.”

  Clarissa looked at him, but she still couldn’t speak. She followed her mother and father towards the open door of the porch.

  Her ears perked at the sound of a train chugging around a curve in the track, its whistle blowing. It brought the familiar feeling of a memory Clarissa had tried to pin down many times.

  She stood in the doorway of the house, marvelling that she had finally come home. She suddenly felt that she didn’t belong. The people smiling at her were strangers. I left a place where I didn’t belong and now I’m in an even stranger place, she thought in despair.

  She swung her body inside the house and stumbled over to a settee, missing it and landing on the floor. She dropped her head to hide the burst of tears. Her family stood around her, but no one tried to console her. They didn’t know her any more than she knew them. They might even think she was a snob when they heard her speak in a dialect different from theirs.

  Her mother walked away, going into the kitchen as if she didn’t know what to do or say after watching her daughter fall down on the floor she had scooted across when she was a baby. Nothing has changed – I’m just a big crybaby! The thought made her cry until her face was drenched. She knew she should wipe the tears away with Nurse Smith’s blue handkerchief, but she didn’t want to lift her head.

  A young woman stood looking at her from the kitchen doorway. She smiled. “I’m Rita, your oldest sister.” She nodded towards their mother’s back. “Mom’s not one for showing her feelings, Clarissa. She never said much after you went away, but you could tell it was hard on her. Now Dad – he’s softhearted – used to lie on the couch in the hall with tears streaming down his face. He couldn’t stand the thought of you so far away.”

  Rita pointed to the rest of the children in the room and told Clarissa their names. Gerald was the light-haired baby sitting in a highchair; the toddler was Molly. The girl sweeping mats, who looked a little younger than Rita, was Elizabeth.

  Clarissa’s brown eyes, as round as the bumblebee marble in her pocket, stared at a girl walking towards her. “I’m Lily,” said the girl, with a wide, warm smile. She held out her hand to help Clarissa up. “Come here, you scraggly, little cripple. I’m taking you to the backroom for a good wash. Sure, you’ve frightened Marie. She’s only nine and when she saw you coming over the hill she ran the other way.”

  Clarissa said nothing as Lily helped her up. She hobbled after her sister, relieved to be moving away from so many curious eyes.

  “We have no flush toilets here,” Lily said. “Just a two-hole outhouse in case two people get the runs at the same time.” She laughed at Clarissa’s look of dismay. “There’ll be a chamber pot under your bed, and a kerosene lamp on the bed table so you won’t want for light.”

  “I’ll heat some water and fill the tub and you’ll get a good scrub,” Elizabeth said, coming into the room and pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. “You’re a dirty little streel after being on the sea for so long. But you’ll soon be as clean as rain.”

  Clarissa caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall. She told herself: Smile at the girl in the mirror and she’ll smile back at you. Look at her and see a pretty girl and you will look pretty.

  “Before you start preening in the mirror,” Lily said boldly, “let’s get rid of this ugly dish.”

  A bowl of curls fell to the nape of Clarissa’s neck as Lily grabbed her brown brimmed hat and exclaimed, “There! That’s better.”

  After Clarissa’s bath, Lily brought her brand new clothes. Elizabeth grabbed up the old ones to put with the rubbish in a barrel outside the house.

  “Just a minute.” Clarissa reached into a pocket of her discarded dress and pulled out the blue handkerchief with its white lace trim. “A keepsake,” she explained.

  She clutched the handkerchief as she stood in front of the mirror. The heads of the three sisters were framed as if the mirror were a family portrait. Little Women, she thought, that’s what we are –like in the book.

  Her sisters and brothers were smiling as she came out of the backroom. As she looked into their faces, she knew that she had never been alone. She could tell by the way they looked at her that their thoughts had travelled the miles from Humbermouth to St. Anthony – that they had missed her. She was part of a family, not only in name but in heart.

  Rita looked at Clarissa trying to make her way through the living room on her crutches. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Chrissy, little sister, I’m so sorry.”

  “You do not need to pity me,” Clarissa answered primly.

  Her sister put one hand to her face. “I don’t pity you; you’re so pretty. I pity myself. The sight of you will always remind me that I’m to blame.”

  “To blame? For what?” Clarissa’s eyes widened in bewilderment.

  “Mommy said you didn’t move much after I dropped you. But you’re like that because of the polio, aren’t you?”

  Clarissa stared at her. “You dropped me?”

  “Yes, when you were a baby.” Her words rushed on. “You were so beautiful. I was running up the lane to show you off, to let the other girls see a real doll, one that could cry and open her eyes – not like the dolls they played with. Sally had a baby sister, too, but she had a dumpy face and no hair. I heard Mommy call after me, and when I turned around I tripped against a big rock by the garden gate and fell on top of it with you under me. Oh, I hope I didn’t hurt you! I hope that’s not why they sent you away. You cried, but you looked the same after I got you back in the house and Mommy laid you in the crib. Then you got a cold; it stayed a long time. Then you couldn’t walk by the time you were supposed to. They took you away, and I thought they would fix you. You would walk and run and be like us. Then you’d come home to stay.”

  Rita stopped and drew in a shuddering breath, blinking hard. “You came home, but you stayed for only a year. That was because Dr. Grenfell asked for you back. I remember Mommy reading the letter and biting her lip, looking up from the page with a troubled face. It seems that the doctor didn’t fix you the first or the second time. You’re still not fixed.” Her hand flew to her mouth as if to drive the last w
ords back inside.

  Clarissa stared at her, startled; her eyes filled with anger. She muttered silently: It is bad enough that I had infantile paralysis, but to be dropped and probably squashed before I had a chance to walk – Maybe Rita’s the reason I got paralysis. I want to slap this strange girl! Her anger was quickly eased by the anguish she saw in her sister’s eyes. She found herself smiling at Rita, pitying her for having to carry a load of guilt.

  Dr. Grenfell’s voice echoed through her mind: She was a mess when we got her. He must have thought someone at home had hurt her. Maybe he was trying to protect her. If he had asked, he would have found out it was an accident. And now she was different from her family, more American, more English.

  Her thoughts trailed off as she watched her mother set the table. She had always imagined her mother as being like Nurse Smith – the kindest of the kind. She remembered Nurse Smith’s words, “My dear child, I visited your house. The place was full of boys and girls. There was likely a half-dozen of one and half a dozen of the other.”

  Not quite a dozen, Clarissa thought, and it’s a small family compared to a table full of orphanage children.

  A thrill shot through her as her mother beckoned her to take her place. Clarissa hauled herself to the table, letting the crutches lean against the rungs of her chair as she sidled into it. She met her father’s eyes shyly. He smiled back, looking satisfied.

  She stared at the white bread and fresh cow’s meat, food not plentiful at the orphanage. Then she saw the bowl of sugar in the centre of the table. Everyone looked at her, but no one stopped her as she reached her spoon towards the sweet substance. This is better than the time I was a sugar cube in a school play, she thought. The spoon slid deep under the white, grainy crystals. She lifted the spoon towards her and into her mouth. She closed her eyes, not sure if what she would feel first would be the sting of a strap on her hands or the sweet taste of sugar in her mouth. She opened her eyes as the sugar melted on her tongue. No one said anything. She spied a golden glob of butter and pressed her knife into it without hesitating.

  “You slice it,” her mother told her. “It’s cheese.”

  The thought of breakfast sent an unpleasant churning in Clarissa’s stomach. She looked into her mother’s warm, smiling face and implored, “I never want to eat porridge again. Please don’t make me.”

  Her mother shook her head and spoke firmly. “Hush, Child, there’s plenty of fresh bread and eggs here. You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want.”

  Clarissa looked at her, astonished that she would be able to eat what she wanted and leave what she didn’t want. She knew then that living at home would be different in many ways from living at the orphanage. “I’ll help with the dishes,” she offered. “I’ll lean on my crutches.”

  “No, no,” her mother said, shooing her away. “You’re tired. Go on up to bed.”

  After she and Rita climbed the stairs to a small bedroom, Clarissa got settled into a warm bed with her sister’s help. Rita promised her she would be up later to sleep in the same bed and keep her company. Then she went downstairs.

  Clarissa’s body tensed under the bedclothes as she waited for her mother to come – hoped she would come. And then she heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. She let out a contented sigh as her mother came into the room.

  “I want you to say your prayers.”

  Clarissa looked at her and hesitated. Words Protestant orphans had used against her were strung through her mind, flapping like black clothes on a clothesline. She didn’t know anything about her mother’s faith.

  Clarissa waited for her mother to make the sign of the cross as she had done at suppertime. She was ready to copy her. Instead, she smiled and said, “We’ll recite “The Lord’s Prayer” tonight. You’ve had a long journey.”

  Their voices rose together in the familiar words. Clarissa felt all the lonely years rush away as if they had been nothing but an uneasy dream.

  “Would you like to know about the orphanage?” she wanted to ask. But she didn’t. She imagined what her mother would say: “That’s all behind you now: the good and the bad of it.”

  She reached out her small, brown hand and laid it on her mother’s large, white one. Her heart seemed to stand still in her chest as she waited for her mother’s hand to turn over and take hers. But it didn’t. They were strangers to each other. Her heart sank. She wished sleep would come like a gentle wind, blow her eyelashes shut and whisk her into a place of good dreams.

  Then her mother’s warm hand turned over and opened. Clarissa’s hand slipped into the soft palm; her mother’s fingers closed around hers. Brown eyes met blue eyes, and Clarissa felt a surge of joy. All the years that were lost, all the changes in both of them were not things to dwell on. She believed now that time would fly, instead of being dragged through dreary and bright days. And so would her heart even if her body was on crutches. Contentment was a gift she would give to herself in circumstances she could not change.

  Under the quilt, her other hand opened and moved away from the blue and white handkerchief. She was no longer Dr. Grenfell’s little orphan.

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  Abiver – trembling.

  Ampery – inflamed, irritated.

  Barrow – a long flannel petticoat.

  Barrow – a flat, rectangular frame with two handles at each end.

  Bazzing – throwing marbles against a wall (to strike and rebound).

  Black Man, The – the Devil.

  Blaighard – Unacceptable, shady words. A corruption of black guard.

  Bough wiffen – A temporary shelter with no sides, just a roof of boughs over posts. A lean-to.

  Buck – steal.

  Busy noshers – people who like to feed on gossip.

  Cape Anne (Ann) – A fisher’s oilskin cap. It had a broad rim that sloped at the back, and ear flaps with strings that tied under the chin.

  Chainies – pieces of broken china.

  Christmas box – a gift (present) at Christmas.

  Chuffie match – a sulphur match used with a tinder box.

  Clavie – A custom to open the new year: old blubber casks were cleaved and set alight, smoking the sky on New Year’s Eve.

  Clint – to drive nails in wood etc. by bending the heads to keep them in place.

  Clumming – wrestling playfully.

  Clumpers – loose pieces of ice.

  Cobble bread – bread toasted on the buttered side.

  Cobby house – a child’s playhouse.

  Company bread – bread in one’s pocket to keep away the fairies.

  Conkerbell – an icicle.

  Consumption – pulmonary tuberculosis.

  Coopy house – hens’s shelter.

  Copying – jumping from ice pan to ice pan.

  Cracknels – rendered pieces of pork fat.

  Dodger – a large horn button.

  Dunch – used to describe loss of circulation in a body part.

  Ferked up – dug up.

  Flobbered – slopped.

  Footin’s – animal tracks in snow.

  Gimp – a dress with straps rather than a collar and sleeves, usually worn over a blouse.

  Glim – light given off by icebergs in the dark.

  Glutches – gulps, swallows.

  Gowithy bushes – bog myrtle, sheep laurel, lambkill.

  Grippe – influenza.

  Grum – sour-faced.

  Gump – a wooden mooring post on a wharf.

  Guttle – to win an opponent’s marbles.

  Hagdown – a small seabird. It has a heavy body and its short wings are used as paddles.

  Hag-stones – naturally perforated stones, used as charms against witches and for good luck.

  Hard tack – a thick, oval-shaped hard biscuit, made without salt or sugar.

  Hipper – a bent nail used, in place of a button, as a fastener on clothes.

  Hoosing – The use of a short stick in guiding sticklebacks into a bottle or can th
at has been lowered by a string into a pond.

  Hussing – teasing.

  In rack – chummy.

  Irish Lords – seabirds that live out on the ocean.

  Jockabaun – a cruel and mischievous person.

  Josh (joist) posts – wooden posts set in holes dug in thick ice, and supported with rocks. The posts were used as markers in a football game. A team player scored by kicking the football between the josh posts of the opposing team.

  Klioo – the call of a seagull.

  Killick – a homemade wooden anchor with a large, oblong stone in its centre.

  Lammy coat – a short, heavy coat.

  Lallick – the game of tag.

  Lipritty skipping – hopping and skipping about haphazardly.

  Lollied – moved slowly up and down like the wings of a bird in flight.

  Mainderberries – sweet, minty, white berries growing on glossy leaves overhanging bogs.

  Maldow – black, brown and green strands of “beard moss” on tree trunks.

  Marming – visiting; going from home to home.

  Mazard – head.

  Meeami abashish – goodbye for a little while (Canadian Indian).

  Merry Dancers – the Northern Lights; the Aurora Borealis.

  Mewl – a low cry.

  Moidering – muddling, addling.

  Mooching – to be absent unlawfully: to go on the pip.

  Mot – hole made in the ground to knock marbles into.

  Mudsuckers – mythical creatures living in bogs. They will grab anyone who steps in the wet spongy ground.

  Ose eggs – sea urchins (corruption of “whore’s eggs”).

  Painter – the rope used to tie a boat to a wharf or stage etc.

  Parlour pudge – in the game of hopscotch, either of the two large adjoining squares.

  Pips – dots on dice.

  Piss-a-beds – dandelion flowers.

  Pitty hole – grave.

  Poll – top or back of the head.

  Pooked – sticking out.

  Pooks – hay piled in high heaps.

  Pricklies – tiny, yellow-green fish found in ponds.