Flame and Ashes

by Janet Mcnaughton

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  St. John’s, Newfoundland, 1892

  June 1892

  July 1892

  August 1892

  September 1892

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Glossary

  Credits

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  St. John’s, Newfoundland, 1892

  June 1892

  Friday, June 3, 1892

  Everyone knows it’s bad luck to set sail on a Friday, but I spent a good bit of the week embarking on this project, so starting this diary today shouldn’t jink me. At least, I hope it won’t. Perhaps I should begin by recording how I came to be writing an Account of My Life in this painfully plain ledger book.

  I would not have chosen to keep a diary. The decision was made for me by Miss Cowling and, I allow, by Alfie’s India rubber ball. If I had left that ball at home where it belonged, if I had not been so close to the school when I tried to discover how high it would bounce, and if the wind off the harbour hadn’t chosen just that moment to gust up a gale, I’d never have found myself sitting in the principal’s office. Miss Cowling is much nicer than Miss Bolt (who cannot abide a fidget in her classroom and feels compelled to tell me so at least once a day). Our principal is generally patient and kind, but I could see that the Incident of the India Rubber Ball had brought her to the end of patience.

  “Tryphena,” she began with a sigh, “whatever shall we do with you?”

  I know I’m in for trouble when anyone calls me by my full name. I told her I’d pay for the damage if she named the sum. (Papa is very generous with pocket money.)

  When she agreed, I thought I was out of the woods, but then she said, “Poor Miss Bolt is at her wit’s end with you.”

  It seems to me that Miss Bolt’s wit ends much sooner than it ought to, but before I could get myself into even more trouble by saying so, I was struck with the fear that Miss Cowling would speak to Mama, and I knew the terrible punishment that awaited me if she did. Mama has been threatening me for weeks now with Proper Playmates — girls who can sit still for hours at a time and make polite conversation, who never tear their dresses climbing trees and never play pirates with their little brothers. Once I began to confide in Miss Cowling, I couldn’t stop. I’m afraid, in the heat of the moment, I may have gone so far as to tell her I was quite certain I would die if I couldn’t play with Alfie anymore. Finally she held both hands up to silence me, telling me to calm myself and asking why it’s so important for me to play with Alfie.

  I explained that Alfie should have started school last year when he turned seven, but Mama and Papa held him back because he has a weak chest and the diphtheria has been, as Nettie would say, so wonderful bad. (I allow I would never have learned how to spell the word diphtheria if it hadn’t ruled our lives these past three years.) I told her Mama has been afraid to let Alfie play with other boys his age, so I am his faithful companion.

  Miss Cowling smiled and said that was an admirable role for an older sister and she would not wish to be the cause of parting me from Alfie. Then she said, “What you need, my dear, is a project to teach you patience.”

  This pleased me because I already have one on the go. I’m more than halfway through a piece of Fancy Needlework. I painted the picture myself. It’s an old-fashioned mourning piece, with a willow tree and a woman dressed in black leaning on a pillar topped with an urn. Nettie Sweetapple, our housekeeper, advised me on the design and she pronounced it “right tragical and romantic,” which is high praise from her indeed.

  I didn’t tell Miss Cowling that I hope to have the piece all clewed up for our school closing ceremony next month, so it can be displayed along with the Fancy Needlework done by all the other girls. I am keeping this a secret, hoping to surprise everyone (and I think it will, because Miss Cowling was doing her best not to act too surprised to learn I could sit still long enough to embroider anything).

  Sadly, she then asked how my needlework was progressing.

  Sometimes, I wish I could lie. Everyone says honesty is a virtue, but it is often a trouble as well. I had to admit that needlework’s much harder than drawing. “If my attention flags, even for a moment, the embroidery silk is all tangles. But,” I added, “I am determined to make a good job of it.”

  Miss Cowling thought for a moment, then she took a small book from the bookshelf by the window and placed it on her desk between us. It was her diary, and she told me she had been keeping one since she was my age.

  It was the most beautiful book I had ever seen — bound in red leather with gold tooling — and I told her so. If I’d known what she was planning, I wouldn’t have made so free with my thoughts.

  Miss Cowling said a diary would be a fine project for me. It would help me to sit still, teach me patience and might even improve my Fancy Needlework. The way she went on, anyone would think keeping a diary would cure all the World’s ills. Finally she said that if I promised to keep a diary — and pay for the damage I caused, of course — she’d see no need to draw the Incident of the India Rubber Ball to Mama’s attention. Though she will never read my diary, she said she will, from time to time, ask me to report how many pages I’ve written.

  Well, I’d walked right into that. I had to promise to keep a diary most faithfully. But I left her office smiling all the same, as I also escaped the terrible punishment of Proper Playmates.

  Saturday, June 4th

  Before I could begin to keep this diary, I needed a book to write in, of course, so my first task was to raise the matter with Mama. My chance came on the very day Miss Cowling had extracted the promise from me, while Alfie and I were playing in the kitchen after school. I am probably too old to spend so much time in the kitchen now that I am eleven and almost a young lady (as everyone keeps telling me), but Alfie loves to play there, and as Mama says, wherever Alfie is, I can generally be found as well. We do get under foot, but Nettie never complains. I would say Alfie is Nettie’s special pet, but Alfie is everyone’s pet.

  Mama came downstairs to talk to Nettie about a supper party she and Papa are hosting next week. I waited very nicely until Mama finished discussing the menu with Nettie before I spoke, just to prove to myself I could be patient if I’d a mind to be.

  “Mama,” I began, “I have decided it would be Improving for me to keep a diary.” Mama is very fond of Improving Projects and I could tell at once by her smile that she approved. I’m afraid this success went right to my head as the image of Miss Cowling’s beautiful little diary sprang to mind, and I made the mistake of asking for one just like it. “Do you think Papa could find such a book?” I ended.

  But the smile had already fallen from Mama’s face. “Tryphena Winsor, if I hear you say the words ‘red Moroccan leather’ to your papa, or if a book of that description enters this house, you can expect to wear last summer’s gloves all summer long.”

  This was most unfair. She knows last summer’s gloves have a small mend at the base of the right thumb. I reminded her that my new summer gloves had already been chosen. We happened to be in the store when the new stock was put on display, and Phoebe Dewling, one of Papa’s best shopgirls, helped me find just the perfect pair. (Then Mama made her put them away, so I wouldn’t ruin them before summer began.)

  “And I was planning to give last summer’s gloves to Ruby as an Act of Charity,” I told Mama to cap my case, because she is very strict about being kind to Ruby, and I had planned to. Really.

  Mama told me I had better do as she wished if I expected to have my new gl
oves for the school closing ceremony. Then I had to listen while she explained to Nettie that I am now forbidden to go into the store without her because Papa likes to shower small presents on me if Mama’s not there to stop him, and how I haven’t the sense to say no as Sarah does. She went on until my ears burned.

  Mama fears that Papa’s presents will somehow ruin my character, but I’m sure she’s got it backwards. I know that people fall prey to their baser instincts because they long for pretty things. Last winter, I saw a girl who was caught trying to steal a pretty fur muff at the skating rink and I feel quite certain she would never have done so if she’d had a papa who showered her with small presents. But there’s no use arguing with Mama about such things. She was a Methodist until she married Papa, and I allow that accounts for her stern nature.

  That evening, Mama asked Papa to bring home this ledger book for me to write in. Then Mama told me a diary is a private thing, and she would never read what I write, and she said I could lock it away in the top drawer of my dresser where I keep my strand of pearls.

  This ledger came home with Papa yesterday and it’s some ugly, bound in dark green canvas, with ordinary, lined paper. I allow the lines are helpful, and I should be grateful to have such a Useful Book, but it looks quite out of place in my beautiful bedroom. I was that disappointed, I could hardly bring myself to put pen to paper last night. Papa must have noticed how crestfallen I was, because today he brought me a wooden lap desk, most cunningly made and very beautiful. It closes into a carrying case with a fine brass handle and has a marquetry compass rose worked in different coloured wood. When open, there’s a wooden surface for writing, a tray for pens, two crystal inkwells and a blotter. Mama frowned when she saw it, but I was so delighted and thanked Papa so nicely she finally had to smile. Papa said it seemed made for me because he knows I wish to travel the world when I am grown. Now, though I may not have something pretty to write in, I do have something beautiful to write upon, which makes a world of difference.

  There. That’s the entire tale of how I came to be keeping a diary. Next time, I will make a proper start on what a diary ought to be: The Story of My Life and Times.

  Monday, June 6th

  My name is Tryphena Elizabeth Winsor, and I am in Class II at the Church of England Synod Girls’ School. Our school is named for its building, the Synod Hall, which has white clapboard and a gabled roof with a lovely little bell tower. Upstairs, there’s a theatre where plays and concerts are sometimes staged. We hold our Christmas concert there and that’s where the school closing ceremony will be held in July when the prizes are awarded to the best students. (I am never one.) Behind us, facing the Cathedral, is a row of buildings also belonging to the church, though not nearly as pretty — the Sunday School Building, the red brick Girls’ Orphanage, the Bishop’s House and the Clergy House. The Cathedral itself is a most beautiful stone building, and the pride of our city. (The Catholics, of course, have their own grand cathedral to feel proud of, just up the hill.)

  I am grateful that Papa sends me to the C of E Girls’ School rather than one of those private schools for girls where they study useless things such as Deportment and Manners. In our school, we learn serious subjects such as Botany and Mapping and Geography, which will be useful when I travel the world.

  Today I walked home with May Seaward, as we always do unless the weather is shocking bad. We’d love to walk along Water Street, but the crossing-sweeper boys (who do little or nothing for the money they demand) are very rude if they don’t get a penny as we pass the corners they call their own, even now that the streets are dry and passable! So we favour Duckworth, which is just one street up from the harbour and almost as fine. It’s not the most direct path home, but it lets us view all the glories of our grand city. On the way to Duckworth, across from the Cathedral, is the most romantic dwelling in the city, Ashton Cottage. It has a sloping front garden, a long, sloping roof, and a porch bedecked with white scrollwork. Today, I told May I plan to live there when I grow up. (Unless, of course, I run off to somewhere more exotic.)

  Well before we came to the Commercial Hotel, we could hear the music of the grand new barrel organ belonging to Mr. Michael Power. May and I always put a penny in his cup because his story is so sad and affecting. He worked in the mine at Tilt Cove until he was blinded by an accident. When Mr. Power began to beg, he managed to find an old barrel organ, but it was so feeble and squeaky it could barely play. Last year, some Water Street businessmen, Papa among them, took up a subscription to buy him his fine new organ, which was shipped all the way from the United States. I always feel so proud to have such a generous papa whenever I see it.

  There’s a gap in the buildings on Duckworth where I can catch just a glimpse of Papa’s store down on Water. Today May and I passed at the very moment when my sister Sarah went in the front doors. Sarah is allowed inside the store any time she pleases (unlike me) because she has set out to learn everything about the millinery arts. Though she’s only fourteen, Sarah favours Mama in the seriousness of her nature. When she takes an interest in something, she sets out to learn everything about it. (Papa calls her his little professor.) She even has her own collection of silk and velvet ribbons, and feathers and flowers made of cloth or paper, and she’ll spend an hour or two working with the milliners whenever she can. When the demand for new hats reached a fever pitch just before Easter, Papa was happy to let Sarah work with the milliners every day after school and Saturdays too. By Easter she was shaping hat foundations, which is difficult work. She even learned how to block buckram frames.

  Sarah has no trouble sitting still whatsoever and she reads a great deal when she’s not sewing. We are so unalike, I sometimes wonder if perhaps the midwife brought Mama the wrong baby when I came into the family. I especially can’t understand why Sarah wants to spend so much time learning to make hats. Papa could buy her any hat in the store.

  Alfie has been at my door for a good five minutes, asking me to come and play pirates with him. I told him I’d just written about Sarah in my new diary and I didn’t want to stop until I wrote something about him as well, and I’d be with him now the once if he’d give me a few minutes. This impressed him greatly, so he’s gone off to the kitchen to get provisions for the next voyage on our pirate ship, the Golden Hind (which is really the third-floor landing where we can see out the Narrows to the open sea).

  Before Alfie left, I reminded him to walk to the kitchen. (He still coughs a little when he runs.) I also made him promise not to slide down the mahogany banister. Unlike the dumb waiter, which requires me to operate when Alfie gets inside, he can go down the banister alone. If he’s going to get into trouble with Mama, I would rather be there so we can pretend it was my idea.

  Alfie is the Light of Our Lives, and he would be perfect, except for his weak chest. Last winter Mama was terrified he had contracted diphtheria, even though we keep him away from other children as much as possible. After a few days, Dr. Roberts assured us it was only a bad cold, but Alfie was sick for weeks. Papa could see I was worried and he knows, when Alfie was too sick to play last winter, I read him all the poems in A Child’s Garden of Verses by Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson. To comfort me, Papa said that Mr. Stevenson was just the same as a child, and we mustn’t worry too much about Alfie.

  Alfie enjoyed the poems so much that Papa has ordered a copy of Kidnapped, also by Mr. Stevenson, and Alfie and I will read it together next winter, whether he is sick or not.

  Now I really must go and hoist the sails on the Golden Hind before Alfie comes back.

  Tuesday, June 7th

  I am not sure keeping a diary is having an Improving influence on my sewing. I tangled the embroidery silk while trying to make a French knot on the collar of the lady’s mourning gown last night and had to pull it out and begin over again. But I will persevere with this diary because of my promise to Miss Cowling, of course, but also because the story of my life is so very interesting.

  Very few girls in Newfoundland can boa
st a better life, I’m sure. My family, the Winsors, are leading members of the St. John’s merchant class. (Mama would call this statement vainglorious and boastful, but I wrote it anyway because it’s true.) My father is the sole proprietor of Winsor & Son, one of the best mercantile premises on Water Street. Papa is, in fact, the Son, but he keeps his father’s name in the company out of respect for my dear, departed grandpa. I also think he hopes Alfie will join him someday, and then the company really will be Winsor & Son once again.

  Our house sits on Gower Street just a few blocks south of Government House, where Governor and Lady O’Brien represent Her Majesty Queen Victoria in Newfoundland. I like to think we live in the shadow of Vice-Regal Grandeur. (Sarah told me, quite sternly, that we would be tormented endless if I ever repeated such foolishness outside the house. So now I only think the words to myself before I fall asleep at night.)

  The house took two years to build. We just moved in last October. Papa spared no expense, as it is a showcase for all the beautiful things he sells. But if anyone had asked me what our house should have looked like, I would have added a front garden and a porch like Ashton Cottage, instead of fronting right onto the street just like all the other houses. If we’d only done that, it wouldn’t be so easy for me to hear people talk as they pass by and I would never have had the misfortune to overhear the men talking yesterday as I sat by the open window where the light was best, working on my Fancy Needlework. When one of them remarked what a grand house ours is, the other replied, “Yes, my son, that’s what they calls Windsor Castle,” and they both laughed, most unkindly. So now I am burdened with this disagreeable secret, and I can’t tell a soul because I’m sure it would hurt Papa’s feelings very much.

  I can certainly understand why people might envy our house. It has three storeys above ground and a fine, cozy kitchen in the basement. The front door and our large picture windows are filled with leaded glass, thick and bevelled, that casts rainbows everywhere whenever the sun shines through. (Mama says it is much more tasteful than stained glass.) Mama has a grand collection of art glass and pottery around the house that Papa is always adding to. Since we moved in, I’ve spent many hours sketching the patterns on the tiles and wallpapers. Sometimes it is hard to believe how beautiful our house is.