by Vicki Delany
Elaine sat.
“I went for a job interview once, when I was first looking for a position as a nurse, and the hospital administrator, a male of course, actually asked me if I had ever had intimate relations with a man. I was young then, so young, and times were so different. When I was a child I had to help feed my brother, I told him, when his arm was in a cast. The result of falling out of the apple tree.”
Elaine laughed.
“Oh, you can laugh, young woman,” Miss Madison said, smiling. “But I had no idea what the lecherous old fool was asking. And that is why I want to get it all on paper, before it’s too late. You may find it funny, but I honestly didn’t understand why that man wanted me to take off my blouse in order to continue with the interview. Although I did know quite enough to decide that it was time to leave. I had plenty of money, of course, and all the arrogance that came with it, but I have wondered since what a frightened young woman, with few prospects and desperate for a job, would have found herself coerced into doing.
“Anyway, my dear, I obtained another position and then at the start of the war joined the Canadian Army Nursing Sisters and I learned soon enough what intimate relations are. And thus I would like you to help me write it all down.”
Elaine smiled at her. “Do you mean that I have the job, Miss Madison?”
“Indeed, you do. But only if you refuse to call me Miss Madison. I do wish that everyone who lives here would call me Moira. It is my name, after all. You may not believe it, but there are still people who remain firmly stuck in the old social structure, and not all of them are the employers.”
“Moira, it is, then.”
A subtle knock and the door opened to admit Ruth pushing a small trolley bearing an enormous silver tray, complete with matching teapot and milk and sugar bowls. They were accompanied by three sets of antique cups and saucers, painted the most delicate blue with a rim of soft yellow flowers. Small sandwiches, tiny pastries, and what appeared to be real homemade scones with clotted cream occupied a matching three-tiered cake tray.
Elaine struggled to contain her excitement. The traditional English ritual of afternoon tea was her idea of heaven.
Ruth placed the tray on the table beside Moira and arranged the food on the antique desk closer to Elaine. She backed up to a chair, tucked her dress under her ample bottom, and lowered herself as if to sit.
Moira coughed. “We are not quite finished with this interview, Ruth. Perhaps today you can take tea with Lizzie.”
Ruth flushed to the roots of her over-dyed black hair and stumbled awkwardly to her feet. Mumbling hideously contrived apologies, she hurried from the room.
Moira smiled at Elaine. “Would you please pour, dear? I am afraid that my hands find it to be a bit of a chore these days.”
A trembling Elaine poured the tea into the delicate cups. She had an extensive collection of teacups herself, and she was knowledgeable enough to recognize the quality that she held in her hands. At a nod from her hostess she added a splash of milk. Moira declined sandwiches, scones, or cakes.
Elaine served herself and sighed happily. She lifted her teacup up to admire it. “This is a beautiful set.”
“My grandmother on my mother’s side brought the service over from Ireland when she came to Canada to be married.”
Elaine almost dropped her cup in terror. Then she gripped it so tightly it was in danger of shattering.
Moira swallowed a secret grin. “If you appreciate the history of my family things, my dear, I have a feeling that you will appreciate the history of my family and me. I trust you can stay.” It was not a question.
“I would be delighted to.”
“Good. We’ll begin tomorrow. Ruth will discuss terms of payment with you and you can sign a bit of a contract. If you’re uncomfortable living here, you are certainly welcome to seek accommodation elsewhere, but there isn’t anything close at hand.”
“I am sure I’ll be happy here.” Elaine helped herself to a scone and topped it with a dab of cream.
“Good.” Moira smiled. Her teeth were badly stained and fitted poorly in her large mouth. A surprise, considering the kind of money this family had. “The first thing you’ll want to do is to have a look at the boxes in the old guesthouse. Alan will show you where they are. I have saved practically every letter I ever received. You will doubtless even find a few dressmakers’ bills, as well. And a great many letters that I wrote but never sent. I was a terrible one for writing all my feelings down in a frenzy of emotion. But come the cold light of day, I would recover my wits and could never get around to posting the silly things.”
She sipped her tea and smiled at the memory of her younger self.
Elaine shivered with biographer’s delight and selected a salmon sandwich, the bread cut so thin it was almost transparent.
Tea finished, Ruth was summoned by a press of a bell to show Elaine to her room.
“Just one more thing,” Moira said as Elaine got to her feet. “Can you swim?”
“Can I swim?” What an extraordinary question. “Quite well, actually. I was on the swim team at University. Breaststroke mainly. I won some medals. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“When I originally applied for this position, I was rejected,” Elaine said, as a tight-lipped Ruth showed her to her room at the end of the second floor corridor. “You wrote and told me that someone else had been hired. What happened to her?”
Ruth shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“It matters if she quit because she felt that she couldn’t do the job expected of her.”
“That wasn’t the case. She died.”
“She died!”
“Drowned in the lake her first week on the job. Dinner is at seven. Be on time.”
***
Elaine was given an enormous bedroom at the front of the cottage, overlooking the expanse of lake and the fiery display of the gentle, rolling hills beyond. The room had been decorated in typical Canadian cottage rustic: good wooden furniture, colorful area rugs, a bright handmade quilt on the huge bed, a bookcase bulging with well-handled old classics and crisp modern biographies. Television, VCR, phone, and a computer complete with printer and permanent high-speed Internet connection seemed quite out of place, but welcome nonetheless.
Elaine sank onto the bed and bounced a few times to test the springs. She could scarcely believe her luck. Although her luck, according to Ruth, had come at a high cost to someone else. But no matter—she was here now. This place was called a cottage, but to any normal person it would pass as a mansion. It was old, probably as old as any other place on the Muskoka Lakes. A remnant of the days when wealthy Torontonians and New Yorkers, with full retinues of children, relatives, and assorted hangers-on, would come north on the train, preceded by an entire network of servants who traveled ahead to ensure that all was in order when the family arrived. In those days, before a network of roads and driveways linked every property to the community, they would catch a lake steamer and be deposited, each group, right at the foot of their own dock. Wives and children, the occasional mistress and all the servants, would spend the summer here, from June through to September, and the “head of the family” would enjoy his bachelorhood back in the city and travel up on weekends to join them.
The bed found to be more than satisfactory, Elaine unpacked in haste, unable to control her impatience to explore more of the old home and property. She stopped in front of her wide window and drank in the panorama. Tough working conditions. Thick storm clouds the color and consistency of steel wool were gathering behind the hills across the lake and moving fast in the wake of heavy winds, and the lake tossed tiny whitecaps in agitation. The tree-covered hills beyond were wrapped in a frenzy of color. Orange, yellow, and auburn, as well as all the shades of green so beloved of nature and the limitless possibilities of red-to-black.
Elaine slipped into her hiking boots, anxious to explore a bit of the property before the fury of the storm cras
hed down upon them.
The house was multi-storied. A wide flight of stairs in the center led down to the main hall. A device for transporting Moira’s wheelchair was attached to the staircase. Stern and forbidding Madison ancestors eyed Elaine as she made her way down the stairs. She could feel their disapproval. She was an interloper, an outsider. She didn’t belong here, the pictures told her, not in the family wing. If she had any place at all, it was with the servants.
One portrait spoke to her so forcefully that she half expected to see the painted lips move. She stopped at the bottom step and faced him. He was dressed in a severe woolen suit, tie knotted tightly enough to cause the ample flesh on the neck to bulge around it. Tiny black eyes, bulbous red nose and perpendicular ears were almost caricatures. Almost but not quite. Without knowing how she could be so sure, Elaine knew that the artist had hated the subject, hated him with a passion. But he needed the commission. And so proud was this Madison ancestor that he was either not aware of the animosity or considered it to be of no consequence.
“That’s Mr. Augustus Madison, the man who built this place.” Elaine started at the voice. Ruth stood at the bottom of the steps, also staring at the portrait, her eyes unfocused and distant. “Long before my time, of course. He was Miss Moira Madison’s grandfather. A pillar of North American industry. A true visionary.”
“Really? How nice.”
Deep circles the color and consistency of used tea bags underlined Ruth’s eyes, and time had carved sharp crevices into the delicate skin of her throat and around her mouth. The harsh black hair and the glimmer of dislike in her small shrewd eyes accented every crease. She stood firm, arms crossed, blocking the steps, her expression indicating that she had swallowed something exceptionally unpleasant.
Ruth said nothing, but neither did she step aside. She filled the wide staircase simply by her refusal to move. Elaine sucked in her stomach and slithered against the polished wood of the banister. “Going for a walk,” she explained where no explanation was needed. “Get a bit of air. Feels like a storm’s about to settle in.”
Ruth’s hostile eyes followed Elaine as she walked down the hall and out the front door.
The instant she saw the view, Elaine was in love. A wide deck wrapped itself around the front of the building. In contrast to the aged stone and wood cottage, the deck was of modern style and materials: stained wooden floor, Plexiglas fronting tucked inside a blond wood frame. The deck was bare and empty, deserted in preparation for the long winter ahead. But in her mind’s eye Elaine could see it coming alive with sun umbrellas the color of tropical parrots, matching cushions on comfortable lounge chairs, terracotta pots overflowing with radiant blooms of petunias and impatiens, small tables holding bowls of black olives and mixed nuts. And relaxed, sun-kissed bodies, toweling off warm lake water, laughing and reaching for cocktails.
She looked over the edge of the deck. Wooden steps were braced against the solid rock of the Canadian Shield to lead down the hill to a flagstone path, which meandered casually along the water’s edge, as if it had nowhere in particular to go. Beside the steps an electric wheelchair ramp cast a discordant modern note into the ancient beauty of stone and wood, trees and water. A wide dock extended a good distance out over the water, and to the right of the dock there were two enormous boathouses, painted the same gray and green as the house, both closed tight against the encroaching cold. Lonely empty window boxes, green to match the trim, snoozed in the wide windows waiting for the renewing touch of spring sun. A staircase curved up the side of the largest of the boathouses, leading to a second story and the flat roof above. Everything was in immaculate condition. Not a fleck of loose paint, chipped wood, or misplaced weed could be seen.
Beyond the boathouses, across a narrow strait, sat a tiny island. A thick barrier of pine and hemlock flowed down to the boulders at the water’s edge. It boasted no signs of a dock or cottage, even of a clearing, but two rowboats were pulled up onto a bare outcropping of rock and a single column of smoke curled up from under the trees to blend into the storm-cloud gray.
The path running along the water’s edge ended at a clump of old white pine and undergrowth so thick that it blocked any view of what lay beyond. Elaine walked forward, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to peer through the curtain of foliage.
The air, heavy with moisture, swirled before her eyes. She blinked. A strange smell rose around her. Perfume. Cheap perfume. Applied with much too heavy a hand.
Through the mist and beyond the trees she saw a cabin. A neat, freshly painted cabin, nestled in the thick woods. Small but clean. Someone’s home. She saw a young, red-headed woman absent-mindedly stroking her flat belly and pacing in front of the window and Elaine sensed that the young woman was consumed with worry that she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake.
One drop of rain landed on Elaine’s nose. Her eyes flew open. The cabin, the pacing woman, the scent of perfume were gone. Leaving only the trees.
A standing-up dream. How amazing was that?
Enough exploring for today. She pushed the strange image out of her mind and dashed for shelter.
Chapter Two
Moira Madison watched Elaine Benson stroll along the path beside the lakefront. The young woman stopped and held her arms out to her sides and took several deep breaths. Moira smiled to herself. The land was working its charm.
As with the first woman she’d hired as her biographer, the one who had come to such a tragic end not more than a few yards from where Elaine was now standing, Moira wondered how much to reveal. All she wanted from her biography was an account of the war years and after and what life was like for a nurse in those days. But any biographer worth her salt would expect more than a dull recitation of facts and dates; she would want to get at the feelings and emotions lying just out of sight, the ones too private to be freely committed to paper. Moira had initially rejected Elaine Benson’s application, and instead hired Donna Smithton, because she feared that she would find herself revealing more than she wanted to the woman who had written Goldrush with such passion for her subjects. Donna seemed so much safer—more academic.
But Donna’s sudden, tragic death seemed like a rebuke to Moira, and so she had returned to her first choice.
Outside, Elaine picked up a small rock and tossed it into the lake, probably just to hear the sound of it hitting the water. Moira closed her eyes and remembered.
***
“I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I am a Madison and I refuse to disgrace myself.” The nursing sister clung to the rails of the rusty old ship and with the force of her not inconsiderable will calmed the heaving in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a thing since they’d left Halifax three days earlier, and she was starting to fear that she would never eat again. Through the deep gloom of the North Atlantic she could only vaguely make out the shifting shapes of their escorts. Keeping pace with the defenseless old ship, one destroyer on either side watched over them. The rest of the convoy was strung out ahead. No lights marked their passing. Merely a displacement of the darkness, an unusual ripple in the timeless rolling pattern of the waves.
It was full, impenetrable dark. The all-encompassing dark, which the sailors liked the best, a cloud cover so thick there was not a glimmer of moon or stars. Three days out of Halifax and to the nurse it felt more like three months. Ten more days to go. If only she could live that long. The convoy zigzagged across the North Atlantic headed for Liverpool. They were an old ship, bound for England and the war, but so far the only casualties were soldiers and nurses hurling up their innards and cursing the power of the sea with every feeble breath. They slept in their clothes with life jacket and essentials constantly at hand in case of attack by enemy submarines.
Despite her misery, she managed a weak smile at the memory of her new-found friend Susan, a plain, plump girl from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, who, the first night at sea, had demurely slipped into a frothy nightgown all ready for a good night’s sleep in the hard, narrow bunk. The nightgown wa
s fabulously expensive, although Susan didn’t appear to have money. It must have been a gift, a farewell to a beloved daughter or niece leaving for war. A dream of cream satin brimming with pure white lace and pale yellow bows. How Matron had carried on at the sight of it. Hadn’t they been told they would have one minute to get up on deck for the lifeboats in case the ship was hit? And if so how did she expect to survive in the North Atlantic in that garment?
At least they were part of a convoy. It was rumored that the first ships had set out unescorted.
After the passage of several lifetimes on a shifting, watery world, they docked in Liverpool. The Nursing Sisters staggered off the ship, some of the girls as gray as the winter’s snows on a cloudy Toronto day, others down ten or more pounds from the start of their ordeal. Moira had never thought that the solid earth could feel so good. With scarcely time to think, much less notice their surroundings, they were loaded onto a train heading for London. She had assumed that they would have comfortable coach seats at the very least, even private compartments if they were terribly lucky. A relaxing train journey with well prepared, nourishing food would go a long way to help them recover from the sea voyage.
Instead the train was a madhouse. It was bad enough on the platform, crowds pushing and shoving. Soldiers and sailors in British uniforms were clinging to sobbing wives or girlfriends. Many of them with crowds of confused children clutching at their knees. Those from other countries, Canadians, Australians, South Africans, New Zealanders, as well as a myriad of uniforms she didn’t recognize, milled about in confusion. The air rang with a biblical cacophony of languages and indecipherable accents. The Nursing Sisters followed Matron in a neat line, their traditional crisp white veil a sharp contrast to the sea of Army khaki, Navy and Air Force blue, and traveler’s gray.
Bad as the train station was, the train itself was a nightmare. Every available place, and a great many not available, was taken. Soldiers sat on the floor or leaned up against the doors, their rifles and kit at their feet if they couldn’t find room in the overflowing luggage bins. Red Cross workers passed through the cars—how they actually managed to move she couldn’t quite figure out—with dry sandwiches and over-strong, over-sweetened tea. She nibbled cautiously at the edges of a sandwich. The filling was an odd sort of pale gray, and she didn’t dare investigate any further. But her stomach didn’t revolt at the first taste of the food, so she gobbled it up in record time, pushing aside memories of salmon and cress sandwiches served on the lawn by nameless, unspeaking maids in starched white aprons and black dresses.
