by Sarah Ellis
Back to the party. Mr. Boothroyd played the fiddle and everyone was dancing. Just when my feet were so wanting to dance that they almost danced away by themselves, Bertha Rose whirled by and grabbed my hand. She said, “Let’s show those clodhoppers how it’s done.” I don’t know the first thing about dancing, but it was so crowded that nobody paid us any attention and we just whirled around and had a grand time. There was a great mix-up with something called a grand chain and then I ended up dancing with lots of other people, even ones I didn’t know. It was very merry.
There was a big table covered with food and drinks. I had lemonade and ham sandwiches and then I danced more and had lemonade and cake and cookies and tea.
When Mr. Boothroyd took a rest some of the people got up and sang songs. Eddie McDougal, the bald man who works in the dye shed, had a voice that filled the whole room. He sang a Scottish song called “The Road to the Isles.” One of the lines of the song is, “Their laughter puts the leap upon the lame.” That line went round and round in my head all evening, like the mill wheel.
I got to talking with a girl who works over at Big Red. She asked me if I knew what they said about the long underwear they make. I said no and she said, “It is so itchy that it tickles your fancy.” Then we both got the giggles.
At the end of the evening Mr. Flanagan and his wife gave out the presents that were under the tree. We all opened them on the spot. Mine is a pink hankie with lace, the prettiest I have ever had. I don’t think I will ever blow my nose on it, but will save it to dab my fevered brow, if ever I have a fevered brow. And we each got a bag of ribbon candy.
When I got home Uncle James had gone to bed, but Auntie Janet and I sat up and I told her all about it. We ate ribbon candy and Mungo played with the bag.
Today I found a good Christmas present for Auntie Janet.
Christmas Day
Afternoon
Dear Papa and Mama,
Auntie and Uncle have gone for a walk. We all had a lie-in this morning as we were late last night after the midnight service. Yesterday Uncle James said he was not going to come to church and Auntie Janet got very angry and said that he had to come. I have never seen her angry before and I hope she is never that angry at me. But he agreed to come. Church was grand, full to the very edges of the pews. We sang “Silent Night,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” “Good King Wenceslas” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”
There was the crèche with the Holy Family and the shepherds and wise men and animals. There was a crèche in the church in Kingston too. It used to make me sad because it was such a happy family. I used to think that having a family was “happily ever after.” This year I know that having a family is just the beginning of the story. This year I know about different kinds of sad.
In “O Come, All Ye Faithful” it says, “Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above,” and I imagined that you were singing with me.
The singing was so loud that my own voice was just woven into the whole sound. I like that. Uncle James was next to me and he didn’t sing.
When the service finished, Rev. Parfitt stood at the door of the church and shook our hands. “Merry Christmas, Flora,” he said to me. It came to my mind how many grown-up people know my name here in Almonte. Rev. and Mrs. Parfitt, Murdo’s parents, Granny Whitall, Mr. Haskin and Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Brown and Fred and all the other people at the mill. When I lived in the Home only Matron and Cook and a few other grown-ups knew my name. I am more of a person in Almonte than I was before.
Walking home, the snow was blowing and Auntie Janet said it was the rude wind’s wild lament and that gave us the notion to sing “Good King Wenceslas” just by ourselves. We tried to get Uncle James to sing the king part, but he wouldn’t. So we made our voices deep and did it ourselves.
Then we had presents. Auntie and Uncle gave me a new notebook, as I have nearly finished this one, even with writing small. All those clean white pages, and a stiff green mottled cover. I gave Uncle James his socks and he did thank me, but Auntie Janet had to suggest that he try them on. I gave Auntie Janet a pair of scissors shaped like a bird, just like the ones the lady on the train had. They have a little blue velvet case. Auntie Janet cried.
December 26
Boxing Day
Dear Papa and Mama,
Yesterday Auntie and I had dinner with the Campbell family. We went down in the morning to help. I have not mentioned this before, but Mrs. Campbell is expecting another baby. Auntie helped Mrs. Campbell and Kathleen with the cooking and Murdo and I took the little ones outside to play. We made a snow fort and had a great battle. I pretended that I was being helpful, keeping the little ones out of the way, but really I was throwing snowballs as hard as I could and yelling loud just for me. It felt grand. Sometimes I tire of being good.
When we came in, everything smelled wonderful, of turkey and mincemeat.
Auntie and I went upstairs to get our chairs and Uncle, but he refused to come for dinner. The sad place in my stomach that the snowball fight had dissolved came back again. Finally Auntie just took him a plate.
When Mr. Campbell was serving the turkey he asked me if I wanted the parson’s nose. Everyone groaned and giggled and then Mrs. Campbell said, “Oh, Donald, quit with your teasing,” and Kathleen took pity on me and explained that the parson’s nose is the, well, rude end of the turkey and of course I didn’t want it. I must remember this for next Christmas.
We ate until we could eat no more and then we found a little place in our stomachs for shortbread.
I took some scraps of turkey for Mungo, who could hardly eat for purring.
December 27
Dear Papa and Mama,
I cannot write very much. I just want to put my head under the covers and go to sleep. Uncle James went back to work today. Mr. Flanagan has given him a job sweeping. I was hoping that he would be happier. Not at all. When he came home he was in a very dark mood. No matter what kind and cheerful thing Auntie Janet said, he would not answer, and then he started yelling — that he was useless, like an old shoddy rag that should just be thrown into the rag-grinder. While he was in the middle of yelling, a train came by. I have never liked that noise so much because it drowned him out.
December 28
Dear Papa and Mama,
Mr. Flanagan opened the slide again today and I went along with Murdo and Kathleen after work. But it was not as much fun without Auntie and Uncle. Also it is much colder than it was. The air hurts. I went on one run, then I left the toboggan for the others and came home.
December 30
Dear Papa and Mama,
I am angry at Uncle James. There. I have said it. I know it is wicked to be angry with him. I know his arm and hand pain him and he is sad because he cannot weave. I know he is disappointed about his dreams to become a loom fixer. I know he is vexed about money. I know all these things, but I am still angry. He is so grumpy and he does not think anything is good and he seems to want Auntie Janet and me to feel this way too. He does not want us to be happy.
Like this evening. After supper Auntie and I were remembering about Miss Beulah Young and the Temperance lecture. We found that we remembered that song about belonging and we started to sing it.
Then Auntie began to tease Uncle that he had never signed the pledge and all of a sudden he exploded. He said it was all nonsense, that working men had little enough pleasure in their lives, and who was some silly, privileged spinster to tell them that they mustn’t drink. I started to tell him that she wasn’t rich, that she was a half-orphan. Auntie tried to tell him that Miss Beulah Young talked about how there needed to be cozy clubs for working men to go instead of taverns, so they could improve themselves. But Uncle James wasn’t listening. He said that getting people all excited to sign the pledge was wicked, because they had no intention of keeping that promise and then that turned them into liars. Uncle James was practically yelling. I don’t understand. It is not as if Uncle James even goes to the tavern. I felt light as a bird when Auntie and
I were singing and now I feel squashed.
1888
January 1888
January 1, 1888
Dear Papa and Mama,
Two things about 1888. Murdo-who-knows-everything says that it has been one thousand years since there was a year with so many 8s in it. And 1888 will be a leap year. The last time there was a February 29 I was eight years old, but I do not remember it.
Last night was Hogmanay, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. We stayed up until midnight to welcome in the new year. Auntie Janet said that we had to do first footing. I had never heard of this, but she said her Grandma Dow taught it to her. First footing is when the first person to come in your door in the new year must be a tall man with black hair, so that you have good luck the year through.
Of course it should have been Uncle James, since he is tall and dark, but he said it was nonsense, and then Auntie Janet asked him if it was nonsense then why had he done it last year. And then he said well what good luck had the year held?
Then there was a long silence and Auntie said, “It brought us Flora, James.” And then he just walked away.
I expected Auntie Janet to give up then, but she just set her mouth firm and went downstairs and asked Arthur Whitall to do it. He is not very tall and not very dark, but at least he is a man.
Arthur Whitall turned out to be a very good sport. One of the things about first footing is that the first footer has to leave the house by one door and come in by another, but the building only has one outside door. So Arthur agreed to climb out the Campbells’ window and then come in by the front door.
So a few minutes before midnight he climbed out the window. Percy and Archie found this the funniest thing they had ever seen. Then right after midnight there was a loud knocking. We went and welcomed him in and Auntie whispered the good luck poem to him, line by line, and he repeated it in a good loud voice.
Good luck to the house
Good luck to the family.
Good luck to every rafter of it.
And to every worldly thing in it.
Good luck to the good-wife,
Good luck to the children.
Good luck to every friend
Good fortune and health to all.
Then Mr. Whitall and Mr. Campbell all had a drink of whisky and so did Mrs. Campbell and Granny Whitall, but not Auntie Janet because of the pledge.
We kept the fire alight all night for good luck.
January 2
Dear Papa and Mama,
Back to work. My mind wanders a good deal of the time when I am at work. The sound of the machinery has a rhythm to it and it as though my body stays in the mill, doffing, but my mind walks out the door and down and street and out of town and into the woods where the fairies are. Doffing and piecing take noticing, but not much thinking. This morning the snow was coming down in huge soft flakes and I had time to stare out the window, following one flake as it danced down to the ground. I turned into a fairy, riding a snowflake like riding a horse, or sailing in a snowflake boat. As a fairy I was all wrapped in white furs and I was toasty warm with a fur muff for my hands. When I am a fairy in the spring I sew new leaves to the trees. In the summer I spin and weave the clouds into a lovely cape for the fairy queen. In the fall all the fairies fly out on the night of the huge harvest moon with our tiny vats of dye (they are really walnut shells) and dye the trees crimson and orange. When humans see us they think we are fireflies.
I give a good deal of thought to fairies. I would like to tell Ann about the fairies, but she would say that fairies are not real and snow is just snow.
Uncle James has stopped going to work. He says that sweeping is a job for boys.
January 3
Dear Papa and Mama,
Here is something that I cannot tell anyone but you. I cannot bear to look at Uncle James’s hand. It is so ugly, pink and shiny like Crazy Barney’s arm. I know this is shameful. I would like to be like Mungo, who treats Uncle James just as he used to. But I cannot.
January 4
Dear Papa and Mama,
Uncle James has stopped shaving. He cannot do it himself and he won’t let Auntie help him. Perhaps when he has a real beard it will be fine, but now he just looks like a tramp. I think back to when I first came to Almonte and we all joked about men with beards. It seems like a long time ago.
January 5
Dear Papa and Mama,
I’m writing this at the rectory. This evening, Auntie and I were invited to visit Mrs. Parfitt. Uncle James was invited, but he would not come. It was good to get out of the house. Uncle James is like a heavy dark cloud in the corner. Auntie Janet took some mending to do and I took this book. There is a lovely warm fire and Mrs. Parfitt is boiling the water for tea. I’m on a low stool and Robbie, a friendly wheezy old dog, is sitting on my feet. Auntie and Mrs. Parfitt are talking of this and that. I am half-listening.
I had a thought about Mrs. Parfitt. Up until now I thought that she was just being kind to us because she is the minister’s wife and she is obliged to be kind to everyone in the church and help them out in their troubles. But looking at Auntie Janet and Mrs. Parfitt talking, I can see that they are more like friends. They are both younger than most of the church ladies (and prettier).
Pause for listening.
Here I am, back again. When I heard the word Flanagan I started to listen more than half. Mrs. Parfitt told Auntie Janet that Mr. Flanagan is trying to divorce his wife. She said the word divorce in a very quiet way. Then her voice got even quieter and she said that on weekends “fancy ladies” come up on the train from Toronto to visit Mr. Flanagan. I didn’t know what this meant, but Auntie Janet gasped. So I made the mistake of looking up, and then they remembered me and then they stopped talking. Mrs. Parfitt said, “Little pitchers.” I know what this means. It means “Little pitchers have big ears,” and it means don’t talk about this in front of the children. They changed the subject to plans for the church concert. This made me very cross. I am not a child. I am an employee of the Almonte Woollen Mill and if I don’t know what a fancy lady is I should be able to ask. Of course I don’t.
The tea is ready. I wonder if there will be biscuits.
January 7
Dear Papa and Mama,
Payday today. When we got home Uncle James was out. He sometimes goes for long tramps on his own. Auntie Janet boiled the kettle for tea and then she noticed that there was no tea left and she started to cry. I said I would go along to the store, which stays open on the nights of payday, but she said that if we bought tea we mightn’t be able to pay the rent. Then she said that she is lying awake in the night fretting about how we can afford to live with Uncle James not working.
I remembered a treat that Cook once made for me and I put milk and sugar into two cups and filled them with boiling water and said to Auntie Janet that we would have fairy tea. That made her cry all the more. I know about that kind of crying. When you’re so sad that you think you cannot bear it and somebody is kind to you, you just turn into a wet thing. But then she stopped and dabbed her eyes and even smiled a bit. Auntie Janet is a pretty crier. I am a horrid crier. My nose runs, my eyes get red, my face gets blotchy. Perhaps I will be a pretty crier too when I grow up.
After tea I got the idea that Auntie Janet and I needed to do sums. At the Home the girls did not learn arithmetic, but I was always helping the boys with their school work so I got good at doing sums. I made Auntie Janet put her pay on the table and I did the same. I had $1.60 and she had $4.65. So that made $6.25. Our rent is $1.90. We spend $1 a week on wood and candles. This leaves us $3.35 a week for food. She says that she spends $5 a week for food and then she started to get glum again, but I said we could look at what we could do without. We looked at everything we had eaten all week — bread, butter, tea, bacon, beans, coffee, oatmeal, potato, turnip, cheese, sugar, flour, treacle, milk. We figured that we could manage without coffee and cheese and bacon and that fairy tea would be fine until Uncle James got well agai
n. We can also save on candles because Auntie knows so many stories and you don’t need light to tell tales. We finished the evening with the tale of a wizard who knew “black magic and white magic and the whole of the shades between.”
We went to bed much comforted, but as I write this (by moonlight; what will I do when it is new moon?) I have two more thoughts. One is that I wonder if Uncle James will ever be able to go back to work. The other is that our sums did not include laundry or church collection and what about clothes? I know what Auntie would say: Don’t creep up on trouble lest trouble creep up on you.
January 10
Dear Papa and Mama,
It is terribly cold. Thirty degrees below zero. Auntie wrapped newspapers around my chest before I put on my dress this morning. I sound crinkly and I am a funny lumpy shape, but it did help to keep warm on the walk to the mill. But coming home was a misery. It felt as though all the warm damp air inside me froze to hard crystals as soon as I stepped out the mill door. Mrs. Brown said that she was almost hoping that the river would freeze and close the mill. But Mr. Lewis said that the Mississippi has never frozen solid. And then Mr. Wyley said that his grandfather remembered a year when it froze for a whole month and then there was a great discussion about whose grandfather remembered what. Anyway, I certainly hope the mill does not close, because we need our wages.
January 12
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today began well and ended badly. It is still bitter cold. The railway is buried in drifts ten feet deep. And the mill did close. So Uncle James and Murdo and Mr. Campbell and some of the other men borrowed a horse and sleigh to go ice fishing. Auntie and I spent the day close to the stove, mending and knitting. It was very hard to keep warm even wrapped in blankets — the wind was blowing snow against the windows and they let in great drafts, even stuffed at the edges with The Almonte Gazette. We agreed that we would rather be at the mill, because at least it would be warm.
