Burden of Memory

by Vicki Delany

  The Sisters and many of the foreign soldiers crowded around the windows to catch a first glimpse of the fabled city, in those days still the Center of the World, as their train pulled past suburbs and industrial estates.

  It was June 1940, and Nursing Sister Moira Madison had arrived in England.

  Chapter Three

  Elaine stood in front of the open closet in her lovely new bedroom, trapped in an agony of indecision over what she should wear to dinner. Moira herself seemed modern and casual but Ruth would have fitted comfortably into Mr. Darcy’s staff. She hadn’t met any of the other residents and didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps Moira would dress to the nines for dinner and expect her guests to appear the same way.

  In early summer, Ruth had interviewed Elaine for the job of helping the formidable Miss Moira Madison with the writing of her memoirs. Even Elaine, who tried hard not to pay the slightest bit of attention to the business or social news, had heard of the Madison family. Fingers in every pie from airlines to discount grocery-and-drug store chains to gas stations; it was hard to avoid them. And now the Matriarch herself wanted to write her memoirs. It was difficult for her to travel, so Ruth came in her place, to check out Elaine and ensure that she was at least moderately presentable.

  Which apparently she hadn’t been as she was rejected in favor of another candidate. She had forgotten all about the Madisons, and was still trying to figure out what to do with her life, when Ruth called to tell her that the job was again vacant and did she want it. With the understanding that Miss Madison would have the final say.

  Always the optimist, Elaine sublet her apartment in Toronto, loaded a season’s worth of clothes into the BMW, and put the rest of her belongings into storage. If this job didn’t pan out, she intended to simply keep on driving. And decide at the intersection of the highway whether to turn left or right.

  But she was here, for now.

  She looked at herself in the wood-framed mirror over her dressing table and cocked her head to one side. Should she wear her gold earrings or keep the silver hoops she’d worn all day? Like all those well bred but impoverished governesses so beloved of Gothic fiction, she struggled to understand where she fitted into the household. She was not a servant, but she was here as an employee. Would her PhD in Canadian History rank her as equivalent to a guest?

  Better to keep the gold for a more formal occasion, if one should arise.

  Her reflection frowned and chided her for trying to squeeze herself into the social hierarchy. Writing the memoirs or cleaning the toilet, it was all work. She chose a denim skirt, and paired it with a brightly patterned Navajo blouse, a gift from Elaine’s late mother, who before her death had spent her winters in the dry sun of the American Southwest. She added a set of clattering gold bangles, and jaunty costume earrings, and set out for dinner.

  No one had told her where to find the dining room, but this was, after all, a cottage. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate. Elaine nodded to Augustus on her way down the stairs. Scarcely noticed on her previous trip, a matching portrait of a woman adorned his upper side. The same painter, beyond a doubt, for the technique and style were identical. But this time the artist had a kinder eye for his subject. The woman was not attractive, and never had been, with a large nose much too prominent for her face and a chin too small. But the slight grin at the corner of the thin lips, the wisps of gray hair escaping the severe bun and the brown eyes, looking to be constantly on the verge of a wink, offered clues to a gentle, loving personality. The eyes were identical to those that had earlier greeted Elaine across the antique wooden desk.

  She tiptoed down the silent hallway, listening for the sounds of people gathering for dinner. The light was poor, but the beauty of the art collection broke through the gloom. She recognized several of the paintings—Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven, the most famous school of Canadian art.

  Somewhere in the distance a door opened, ushering in the sounds of frantic barking. Two enormous German shepherds bounded down the hall and took positions on either side of her. Their lips curled back to display rows of no-nonsense teeth. Pointed ears stretched flat against their heads and thin tails stood tall, flicking ever so slowly, back and forth, back and forth, full of warning and menace.

  Art forgotten, Elaine sucked in her breath. “Nice doggy? Nice doggy?” She stretched out one hand, palm upward. She loved dogs, always had. One of the greatest bones of contention in her divorce had been, of all things, the custody of the beloved border collie. Elaine sacrificed a lot to keep her. Only weeks after the papers were finalized, a car hit her pet while they were visiting friends in the suburbs. Two thousand dollars’ worth of vet’s bills had not been able to save the dog.

  These two growled in unison, a sound beginning deep in their throats and edging past the bared teeth and curled lips. Elaine drew her hand back. “Nice doggy?” Her eyes darted around, checking out possible escape routes.

  “Hamlet, Ophelia, down. Down!”

  She looked up from the dogs to see a man descending upon them. He was in his early forties, with plain but even features, a tousled mane of curly black hair liberally streaked with gray, cheeks ruddy from the cold, and eyes, an unusual shade of olive green, sharp with stern authority as he stared down the dogs. Dressed in a brown-checked flannel jacket, practical jeans, and heavy work boots, he looked as to be as much a part of the forest outside as the trees themselves. “Leave the lady alone. Now!”

  The dogs, Hamlet and Ophelia presumably, paid him not the slightest bit of attention. The larger, and if possible the meaner, moved a bit closer and growled a bit louder.

  Involuntarily, Elaine stepped back. Show no fear, let them know who’s boss, wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Easier said than done. She pressed her back up against the wall. Nowhere else to go.

  The man grabbed the dogs’ collars and jerked them back. They snarled. Wait until next time, they seemed to say before allowing themselves to be tugged into a sitting position.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m Alan Manners, and I guess you’d be Elaine, who’s come to help Moira write her memoirs.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. “I’d shake hands but they’re kinda busy right now.” He nodded at the two dogs sitting by his feet, still held by their collars and bristling with resentment.

  “Nice to meet you,” Elaine mumbled.

  “Don’t mind these two,” Alan said. His voice was soft and pleasant, a nice contradiction to the rough country exterior.

  “They don’t seem too friendly.”

  “They’ll do you no harm. They like to look tough, that’s the extent of it. Over-bred like crazy and way too indulged, if you ask me. Never quite sure if they’re supposed to be frolicking family pets or ferocious guard dogs. Messes up their already dimwitted heads.” His tone wasn’t entirely joking. “I’ll take them back into the kitchen for their dinner. Cook shot a deer this morning. That should keep them happy for a few hours.”

  Elaine tried to smile.

  “Just kidding. They eat nothing stronger than Purina. See you at dinner. It’s the second door on the right, if you’re looking.” He grinned once more and dragged the dogs down the hall.

  Elaine blushed. She wasn’t sure why.

  But she pulled open the second door on the right, to find a formal dining room laid for dinner. No one else had arrived yet. She’d been careful of the time and was, even after studying the paintings and the encounter with the dogs, a good five minutes early. If punctuality was prized here, Elaine Benson would be punctual.

  There were five places set at the long table, each marked by sterling sliver flatware, dishes that at a glance appeared to be Royal Doulton (she would have had no compunction in lifting one up and examining the bottom but for the potential embarrassment of discovery), heavy crystal wineglasses, one for red, one for white, and a matching water glass. An ornate silver candelabrum, filled with tall, fresh white candles, unlit, occupied the center of the table. A huge old oak sideboard, scarred and stain
ed by years of heavy use, empty except for a glass bowl of tired pink roses, filled one side of the room: the other was taken up by a wide expanse of glass. The thick curtains were pulled back, so that the room showed off the breathtaking view of the dark lake and the black outline of gently rolling hills beyond. A set of French doors led out to the deck.

  It was heavy dusk and the storm had passed. The long limbs of trees swished in the dim glow cast by the house lights. Through the darkness of night and weather, a touch of flame as if from a campfire flashed up, then fell back to earth and disappeared. It came from the scrap of an island, but although Elaine watched for a while, the fire did not show itself again.

  The dining room door opened and Moira’s wheelchair, pushed by Ruth, came in.

  “Settled in nicely?” Elaine’s new employer asked, with a bright welcoming smile.

  “Very nicely, thank you. My room is a delight. I could admire the view forever.”

  Moira beamed, genuinely pleased. “As could I. I am happy that you like my home.” Ruth placed her at the head of the table, where there was no chair, and slipped into a seat of her own.

  “Sit down, please. Dinner will be here shortly. We usually eat in the kitchen, but for your first night I thought something more formal would be nice.” Moira smiled. She hadn’t changed clothes, except to loop a set of brightly colored beads around and around her thin neck. They matched the African tree-planting shirt in color and in theme.

  Elaine was about to comment on the necklace when a heavy-set young woman bustled in, her eyes sparkling above a giant tureen from which rose the most superb odor. Alan, keeper of the dogs, followed, carrying a wooden platter of rough-cut brown bread, several types of yellow and blue cheeses, and a colorful assortment of fruit.

  The platters having been plunked down without ceremony, the chubby woman smiled at the newcomer and extended one hand. “Hi and welcome, I’m Lizzie, better known as the Cook.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lizzie. Elaine.”

  Lizzie pulled up a chair and unfolded her napkin. Alan lit the candles, dimmed the lights and disappeared. He was back with an uncorked bottle of Australian Shiraz in one hand and five glasses dangling, in an apparent feat of anti-gravity, between the fingers of the other.

  Through the closed door they could hear the whining dogs, begging to be allowed to join the festivities.

  While Alan poured and the women accepted, Lizzie dished up steaming bowls of thick red lentil soup and passed them around. The platter of bread and cheese and the tray of apple slices and red and green grapes adorned with a sprinkling of cashews had been placed in the center of the table.

  “Welcome to our little household.” Moira extended her wineglass towards Elaine. The candlelight caught the liquid and reflected back the richest shades of ruby and scarlet.

  “I’m happy to be here.” Elaine lifted her glass in response. The others at the table smiled broadly.

  With one notable exception. Ruth scowled into her drink and mumbled the tightest of greetings.

  Moira made the introductions. The platters were not passed to her, but instead Ruth sliced a bit of bread and placed it, with a piece of cheese the size of a thimble and a scattering of grapes, onto her plate. “Alan is our gardener and handyman. Absolutely essential for keeping the place running. Unfortunately the gardens don’t look like much at this time of year, but they are a joy come spring and summer.”

  Alan smiled shyly at the compliment.

  “Dear Lizzie here is my cook. And the best I have ever had. At last, no more thick, grossly-overdone steaks with béarnaise sauce, tough roast of beef, boiled vegetables, and enough greasy bacon and fried eggs to sink a battleship.”

  “Here, here,” said Alan.

  “Well this soup is great,” Elaine said. “Not what I was expecting, after that lovely tea.” This whole house, from the people to the décor to the food, was a fascinating contradiction of the old and the new.

  “Let me guess,” Lizzie chuckled, “you were expecting roast beef.”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “I rather like roast beef,” Ruth mumbled, her mouth set in a tight line.

  “Lizzie cooks Italian food as well as any Italian. I have always loved real Italian food. Can we have pasta tomorrow?” Moira asked.

  “Of course.”

  Elaine cut herself a sliver of the blue cheese and popped it into her mouth. Stilton. Real English Stilton. Comfortable at this table already, feeling like she didn’t have to be unnaturally polite, she served herself a much larger slice. “Do you live here all year, Moira?”

  “Yes, I do.” The old woman picked up a grape in her crooked fingers and lifted it to her mouth with great care. “I love it here and I’m quite comfortable. If I went back to Toronto, I’d only end up boarding with one of my sisters like a charity case, but here I can have my own household.”

  “Does your family come up much?”

  “On occasion. My sisters’ grandchildren like to spend a good deal of their summers at the cottage, as I did when I was a girl. And they are welcome indeed. It’s wonderful to have children underfoot; they do bring the old place back to life. The family can usually be expected for holidays. They were all here Labor Day weekend. When….” Moira coughed.

  Elaine looked around the table. Alan made patterns of wine in his glass, Lizzie ate her soup with great concentration, and Ruth watched Elaine.

  “When…” she prompted.

  Moira took a deep breath. “When, sadly, Donna died. I should warn you: They will all be here for Thanksgiving. Bit of a chore, really. But I can’t tell them to stay away, even if I wanted to. Under the terms of my father’s will, my two sisters and I own the cottage jointly. Fortunately for my peace of mind they don’t like to be far from the city lights for long. In that way, as in so much else, they haven’t changed a bit from when they were girls.”

  “If I can put up with them, Moira, so can you,” said Lizzie, with a stiff laugh, clearly relieved that the conversation had moved on.

  “You’ll earn your wages this year, with that crowd expecting a Thanksgiving feast,” Alan said, the green eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Lizzie tossed her head. She was young and quite pretty, shining blond hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail, perfect teeth set into a wide and generous mouth, large brown eyes and the lingering traces of a summer’s tan. Only her excess weight threw her out of the modern definition of beautiful. “Like I don’t every other day of the year, looking after you bunch.”

  Moira chuckled. It was a delightful laugh, the tinkling of fine chimes in a warm wind. She had a bowl of soup in front of her, but didn’t lift her spoon once. She nibbled at the edges of the piece of cheese, and ate a couple of grapes. Her lips touched the rim of her wineglass after their toast, but the level didn’t go down, and the glass wasn’t picked up again.

  Conversation swirled around the table, light and friendly, after the brief awkward pause at the mention of death. Lizzie slipped out to the kitchen to refill the soup tureen and fetch more bread and cheese, and Alan brought in another bottle of the excellent wine. Even Ruth relaxed and smiled and joined the conversation in brief spurts. The dogs continued to scratch and howl in the background but no one else seemed to be terribly bothered by the racket. Talk was mostly about the neighbors—who was still here and who had closed up for the season—and chores that were waiting to be done in preparation for winter. Alan mentioned that he wanted to cut down a couple of big branches that had died over the summer and were threatening the driveway. Lizzie told everyone that she had received a letter from her cousin, traveling through Europe, and that the girl was having an absolutely wonderful time.

  Moira said little, and slowly her head drooped and her crepe-paper eyes fluttered closed.

  “Ready to go upstairs, Miss Madison?” Ruth asked.

  The old woman started. “Yes, I believe I am. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Lizzie. What time would you like to start in the mornings, Elaine? I am up early, but whatever s
uits you.”

  “Early is good. I’d like to go for a run first thing, if that’s all right? Could we start about eight?”

  “A runner are you? Good for you. It would do Lizzie some good to get out running as well. Perhaps you can take her with you one day.”

  Not at all pleased with the comment, the cook grimaced into her bowl.

  “Eight in my study, then. Breakfast will be ready in the kitchen shortly before. I am greatly looking forward to starting work. No need to get up. Finish your wine. I’m sure Lizzie has made something wonderful for dessert.”

  Lizzie held the door to allow Ruth to steer the chair out of the dining room, and Alan slipped out to let the dogs out of the kitchen. They yelped with the sheer joy of freedom and scampered down the hallway after the two women.

  Lizzie collected the dirty dishes and Alan resumed his seat. “Hamlet and Ophelia go up with Moira at bedtime,” he explained. “She fusses over them and they stay with her while Ruth gets her ready for bed and then brings them back down.”

  “They spend the night in the kitchen. Horrid things,” Lizzie said, pushing the swinging door open with her ample bottom while she maneuvered the stacked tray. “I love living here, and I love Moira to bits, but if I ever quit it will be because those beasts have driven me away.”

  Alan rolled his eyes and held up the bottle.

  “That was more than enough for me, thank you,” Elaine answered the unspoken question.