I want her to stop, and shift Eddie to my other hip as he's getting heavy. How do I get this sad woman to leave?
“Why don't you go to your sister's? Didn't you say she was waiting for you in Port Hope? She will be glad to see you.” Make her go, please make her go.
“I will, I plan to, in time, when I get what I need. My husband is with my sister now, making a place ready for us. I'm helping out at the House of Refuge for a week or two. The matron's kind; she gave me shoes, this dress. I clean up there, scrub floors, do odd jobs, help take care of the old folks,” she replies.
Determined to get rid of her and feeling a bit sorry for all her troubles, I force myself to speak politely. “Please excuse me now, it's time to take the baby indoors. My father will be home any minute, wanting his supper.”
“If you'll let me hold the baby just once, I'll go.” Her voice has grown harsher, almost threatening.
I can't bear to have her near us another second. “No!” I shout. “I'm telling you to go away and leave us alone. You are trespassing.”
The woman edges away and disappears around the side of the house. She almost collides with Hamish, who shouts, “Watch out – I nearly dropped my fish!”
I never thought I'd welcome his piercing yell, or feel so relieved to see him come hurtling round the corner. He runs into the house, his feet dusty and bare, his arms clasping a huge trout. I follow him into the scullery, and watch him slide the fish into the sink. I'm trembling all over, as if I'd been in an electric storm. I must pull myself together, before Father comes in.
“I caught the biggest fish of all, Millie. What was that old Gypsy woman doing here again?” Hamish asks, not caring much about the answer.
I put the baby into his basket and gulp down a draught of water.
“Say, I forgot to tell you, Millie, I know where she lives. I saw her leave a rooming house on Glenelg West, on my way home from delivering the papers this morning.”
Father comes in before I have a chance to ask any questions.
I fry the trout for supper. It looks and smells delicious, but I can't seem to swallow a bite. I give most of my share to Hamish, and notice Father hasn't cleared his plate, either.
“I've things to see to in the forge, Millie, but I won't be late. Thanks for the good lunch you packed for us today.”
“Can I go out to play till bedtime, Millie?” Hamish is already halfway out the door, but I want to ask him about Mrs. Bates.
“Help me with the dishes first, and then you can go.” I throw him the tea cloth.
“Dishes, on my birthday. You don't mean that, Millie, do you?”
“You bet I do, and it's not your birthday anymore. That was yesterday. Hurry up, so you can go out.” I hand him the first plate. “Did you notice anything special about Mrs. Bates when you saw her this morning? Did she see you?” I don't really know what I expect Hamish to tell me. I know she's in town, she told me that. She'd have to room somewhere!
“No, Millie, I was in a hurry to get home. You know what? Pa and I met Dan Price. He'd been to town to pick up some seed, and he stayed and watched me catch my trout. He told Pa, ‘My missus would give anything in the world to have that little lad of yours.’”
“Hamish, he was joking. You're too young to go off and work for Farmer Price.”
“Not me, Millie, he meant Eddie. I'm Pa's right-hand man – he can't spare me. Carr and Son, that's who we are. I'm finished … can I go now?”
“Thanks for helping. Be home before dark.” I wipe the sink, put the plates away, and wonder what this is all about. People don't go around offering to take in other people's children, not unless they're orphans….
I finally finish tidying the kitchen, and I go up to my room, all the things that happened today buzzing inside my head. I can still hear Elsie Bates's voice, wheedling, “Let me hold the baby.”
And suddenly I know what draws her back to the house. She wants the baby. She told me how she'd lost her child, and now she wants ours.
I pick up the wooden “mother” doll from the top of my dresser and fall asleep holding her – a reminder of how once, a long time ago, I felt safe.
I dream I'm walking along the dusty road that leads out of town towards Pigeon Lake. It's quiet and hot. I'm pushing Eddie in the buggy, and there is no one else but us. Then I hear feet shuffling in the dust behind me.
A voice I know says, “Let me help you,” and strong brown hands wrench the handle of the buggy away from me. The figure of the traveling woman, Elsie Bates, strides ahead, pushing the buggy … pushing my baby brother farther and farther away from me.
I try to overtake her, my feet kicking up clouds of dust. Other footsteps come up behind me. Now we are running side by side, and then they pass me by: Farmer and Mrs. Price are chasing the buggy too. All of us are running. I try to call out, but my mouth is too dry.
I trip and fall headlong before I can reach the bend in the road.
“Stop, please wait,” I call, but one by one, the figures disappear around that bend, leaving the road ahead deserted. There is no sign of the buggy, of Mrs. Bates, or of the Prices. My brother has vanished….
I wake up. I am in my room, in my own bed, holding a clothes-peg doll. Nothing at all has happened except that I had a dream – a horrible, frightening nightmare. My hair is wet with perspiration. I go to the window and open it wider still. The night air is cooler than by day, the sky bright with stars.
I cross the landing and look in on the boys. Both are sound asleep, Hamish lying on his stomach, cheek resting on his comic book. Eddie sleeps flat on his back, arms above his head, his hands clenched in two tiny fists.
I hear Mother's voice – “Dreams, just dreams, pay no mind.”
I creep downstairs to get a drink of water. Father is sitting at the kitchen table, his face in his hands. I step back into the shadows.
“I don't know what to do for the best,” he mumbles, and then looks up. “Who's there?”
I move towards him. “It's only me, Father. I had a bad dream, and came down to get a drink of water.”
“I'll get it for you. I must have fallen asleep.” He brings me a cup of water and watches me drink every drop.
I kiss his cheek. “Good night, Father,” I say, and go back upstairs. Maybe Father is having nightmares too.
AN INVITATION
Monday, wash day, seems to come around awfully fast. It's already past two o'clock and I haven't even hung out the clothes yet. I'm just getting started when Grace appears, excitedly waving an envelope.
“Your personal mail-delivery service, Mademoiselle,” she says, and executes a wobbly curtsy on the grass.
I wipe my damp hands on my apron, and ask, “Who's it from, Grace?”
“It is a federal offense to open other people's mail,” she replies primly. “For goodness' sake, Millie, hurry up and open it.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I can't stay long.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Grace is acting very suspiciously. She looks awfully pleased with herself. Who could be writing to me?
“Of course not, Millie. You are enough to drive anyone to distraction. Are you going to open it or not?”
“I need to go inside and get a letter opener.”
Grace follows me into the kitchen. “Why can't you just tear it open, like other people?”
I slide the knife under the seal and pull out a sheet of fancy notepaper. “It's from Miss Tracy: Eleanor Tracy requests the pleasure of your company at tea on Sunday, August 25, from 3:00 P.M. to 5:00 P.M., at the home of Mrs. S. Wilmot, Victoria Street N.
“And listen to this, Grace. She says, Do bring your baby brother. The garden is quite shady, so I shall look forward to seeing you both. RSVP.”
Grace says, “That means ‘please reply.’”
“I do know that much French! I hope Eddie will be on his best behavior.”
“He's an angel, and you know it. I'm off to deliver Sadie's invitation. Miss Tracy came by this morning and asked if I'd
mind taking them to you both. I have one too. She looked so beautiful and summery in her white muslin dress and straw hat with blue ribbon. She can't be that much older than us – twenty-one at most. Mother says she thinks it's so unfair of the school board not to place a young teacher like her in a livelier household.”
“The only lively thing at Mrs. Wilmot's is that yapping little dog of hers. She'd have a seizure if any of the boys in our class came tramping through her garden. You can be sure, Grace, that Miss Tracy won't be inviting any of them. But even if we have to listen to another lecture about working hard next year – our last one before high school – it won't bother me one bit. Just thinking of eating a meal someone else has prepared seems like heaven,” I say pegging up the sleeves of Father's work shirt.
“I guess so. Listen, Millie, I'm late. I'll see you and Eddie on Friday, as usual. I promised Mother I'd hurry home to watch the twins.”
I finish pegging up the rest of the wash, debating between vegetable soup or scrambled eggs for supper. My hens are laying more eggs again, and they seem to like my singing, though Hamish says I sound like a cat serenading the moon!
Oh, whatever am I going to wear on Sunday?
After I've tidied up the kitchen for supper, I go upstairs to hunt through my wardrobe for something suitable for a tea at Mrs. Wilmot's. Eddie is still awake, so I bring him into my room and prop him up on the bed, with pillows all round him and a chair in front so he can't roll off
I do have a blouse I have never worn. Mother finished making it a couple of weeks before Eddie arrived; she made it of fine cream-colored linen, cut down from one of her old Sunday dresses. It will be pretty and cool to wear. I take the blouse off the hanger and stroke the smooth green-satin ribbon that's threaded round the collar and cuffs. There's a matching hair ribbon, still lying neatly rolled up at the back of my dresser. Mother had noticed that Claxton's was advertising an early-spring sale, and had given me a nickel to go and choose some ribbon.
The blouse fits even better than before. I fasten the five little pearl buttons, remembering how I'd felt kind of bad at first, when Mother said, “I know just the thing for the final touch,” and cut the buttons off one of her best dresses. Mother was forever making do, cutting one thing up to make another.
She told me not to argue: “Don't fuss, Millie. Look at me, I'm as big as a house. I won't be wearing that dress for months. I want you to have something really nice to wear to the school picnic. The buttons will make the blouse very elegant.”
When she had finished sewing them on, I told her I thought it looked every bit as good as the blouses in Eaton's catalog. “I can't wait to wear it. Thank you very much, Mother, I love it!”
The picnic is always held the first week in July, and, of course, I did not go this year, so soon after Mother's death. The blouse was put away, but I shall wear it to Miss Tracy's tea. I am excited and sad, both, about wearing the last thing Mother made for me. But I can hear her saying: “It's a perfect occasion to show it off, Millie.”
I turn this way and that, peering at my reflection in the narrow mirror inside the door of my wardrobe. I must think a hundred times a day How I wish you were still here, Mother….
I experiment with different ways of tying the hair ribbon. “What do you think, Eddie? Shall I wear my hair in braids, loose, or piled on top of my head?” I pick up my little brother, and we both look in the mirror. He stares at our reflections solemnly and then turns his head away, almost as if he's heard someone come into the room. I'll decide last minute, on Sunday.
Next day, I wake up early. It will be another busy morning. The crickets are chirping fast and loud – a sure sign the day will be scorching. I make a batch of corn bread and, after breakfast, take Eddie to market to sell my eggs, buy some flour and cheese, then get back home to the ironing. No wonder Sadie hates it. At last I'm done and we have clean clothes for another week, though of course I have to wash for Eddie more often. Father says he'll keep an eye on him for me after work, so that I can take my acceptance note over to Miss Tracy. Hamish has been allowed to help Robbie make a fort in his yard. Father told me he's been very helpful in the forge lately.
I don't want to ring the bell when I get to Mrs. Wilmot's house. Instead, I push my envelope under the door. Her little dog barks as fiercely as if I've come to steal the silver. As I'm going back down the path, Mrs. Wilmot opens the door and grumbles to herself. I turn, intending to apologize for disturbing her.
She pays no attention and says, “Young girls should not be allowed out at all hours. There's not enough discipline these days.” Before I have a chance to say anything, she shuts the door.
It's not quite eight o'clock. Poor Miss Tracy. How can she stand living there? I enjoy strolling by myself along the quiet streets, not pushing a buggy for once, and decide to take the longer way home on this lovely evening.
As I near the house, the first thing I hear is Eddie wailing inconsolably. I rush indoors to find Father pacing back and forth in the kitchen, trying to shush the baby.
“I'm so sorry, Father. Has he been crying for long?” I take Eddie and rub his back.
“He started almost as soon as you left. It's alright, Millie, there's no need to get upset – babies do cry.” As if I didn't know that!
I give Eddie a drink of cool boiled water and change him, and he's asleep in a few minutes. I realize that this is the first time I've seen Father holding Eddie. I go down to make a cup of tea.
Hamish comes clattering in. “I'm starved, Millie.”
“Would you like a glass of milk and a slice of corn bread? Father says you've been a great help to him today.”
He gulps down the milk and bread. Hamish is always hungry. He's grown a lot this summer.
“We had a big cleanup, and I helped Pa finish a boot scraper for Mrs. Price. Farmer Price came in and asked how I liked having a baby brother around. I said he was alright, but too young to be much use, and he laughed and said I didn't sound too enthusiastic. Well, what was I supposed to say?”
I can't help smiling as I listen to him talk almost as fast as he downed his milk – one huge gulp! I suddenly feel years older than him.
“Be quiet going up to bed, won't you, Hamish? That naughty boy has only just stopped crying and hasn't given Father a moment's peace all evening.”
I carry two cups of tea into the living room and ask, “Father, is it alright if I talk to you for a minute?”
Father folds up his newspaper. “Are the boys getting too much for you to handle, Millie?”
“No … yes … only sometimes. It's about Eddie.”
“What about him – is anything wrong?”
“No, but summer vacation will be over in two weeks. What are we going to do with Eddie? I mean, who will look after him while I am in school? We have to find someone kind and used to babies … someone we can trust.”
“Someone to take him over, you mean?”
“Yes.” Why is this conversation so difficult?
“I'll get it sorted out in lots of time, Millie, I promise.” He unfolds the paper again.
“And, Father, you will let me know who you consider, won't you? So we can talk it over.”
“Yes, I will. Off to bed; you have had a long day.” He looks up and smiles at me, but I can tell he's thinking about something else.
It's Friday afternoon, and the weather is no cooler than it has been all week. I'm perched on the high wooden stool in the sweltering alcove at the back of the drugstore. I have been writing labels for the last hour, and it's so hot back here that every few minutes I have to wipe my hands on an old rag, so as not to smudge the ink. Mr. Mercer is always complaining that none of the ten physicians in town write their prescriptions legibly enough for him to read without ruining his eyesight. I'd prefer him not to have to complain about my penmanship too. I get up and stretch, my dress sticking to the back of my legs. I can hear Mr. Mercer patiently explaining the merits of the latest baby cereal to a customer. “Pablum,” I hear him say, not for th
e first time, “is fortified with the vitamins necessary to an infant's growth, and we recommend it most highly.” I wish I could afford to buy some for Eddie, but it's expensive and he's doing well without it. I'm quite proud of the way I trick him into eating his oatmeal by dipping the teaspoon into the applesauce he loves so much, first.
I sit down and begin to write again. Dozens of bottles of medicine and pills stand in neat rows on the shelf above me. I'm writing the last label when I hear that husky voice I never wanted to hear again, saying, “I'll have to think about it.”
My pen slips, leaving an untidy line scrawled across the date. Oh, no, that's a label wasted! Mr. Mercer always counts them. I'll have to use a new one. Maybe this once, he won't notice. Just as I'm finishing, the door bell chimes. Is she leaving the store? I hurry down the steps onto the main floor, almost holding my breath. Is Elsie Bates, the Gypsy woman, ever going to leave town? There she is now, peering through the glass, looking at the window display I dusted earlier. The sun is behind her. I turn away, not wanting her to notice me. But there's no way I can mistake her straggly hair, her bowed shoulders, or those deep-set burning eyes.
I bend down behind the counter and pick up the wastebasket to empty round the back of the store. When I come in again, Mr. Mercer says, “I wondered where you had got to, Millicent. I see you have finished the labels. Excellent.”
I glance towards the window – she's gone. Trying my best to sound casual, I ask, “The customer who was here a moment ago, sir … did she buy the cereal you recommended? I couldn't help overhearing your conversation.”
“No, not this time. She did buy a pacifier, however. That particular customer comes in on several afternoons around this time to enquire about baby products. Occasionally she buys some little thing, such as a packet of safety pins. What she really needs is guidance; she seems somewhat unsure of herself. She mentioned that she will be taking care of a baby shortly – her sister's child, I believe.”
When the Bough Breaks Page 6
