by Vicki Delany
“I hope that you’re not digging up any of our family skeletons,” Megan said, waggling one painted claw at Elaine. “This family does have a reputation to protect.” She stretched her wineglass out behind her, and without a word Alan filled it with a soft, golden liquid. Moira and Maeve scowled matching expressions of disapproval.
“I intend to tell the truth,” Elaine said.
“However you find it, I am sure,” Megan replied. She took a gargantuan gulp of her wine and turned to her older sister. “I really don’t approve, my dear, of the modern fashion of letting it all hang out.”
Elaine stifled a grin. “Letting it all hang out.” She hadn’t heard that expression since her university days, and that was more than a few years ago.
“Some things are best kept private,” Megan continued, “I have always maintained. Didn’t I say that to the previous girl…what was her name…? Dianne? No, Donna.”
Unasked, Alan handed Elaine a red wine. The glass was huge, handcrafted to crystal perfection, dwarfing the drops of scarlet liquid that filled the bottom. She nodded her thanks and sipped the drink gratefully. She looked up from her glass to see Alan smiling at her. When he smiled he could be almost handsome. She felt herself blushing and looked quickly away.
An elderly gentleman approached their group. He nodded to Moira and smiled at Elaine. “You must be the writer of whom we have heard so much. I am Charles Stoughton, and am delighted to meet you. I quite desperately wanted to be a writer myself in my younger days. But, alas, it was not to be.”
Elaine extended her hand, expecting to receive a polite shake. Instead Charles lifted it to his lips and kissed it. She was enchanted. He was well into his eighties and so emaciated that the bones of his aristocratic face protruded as if they were a finely crafted sculpture of stone or marble covered by a paper-thin layer of skin. The candlelight reflected off an almost bald scalp with a few wisps of white hair high above a pencil-thin gray moustache. His jacket was brown tweed in a herringbone pattern, with leather patches at the elbows. A cheerful red cravat accented the long patrician neck. “If you’re in need of any assistance with the war years, I would be more than happy to help in any small way that I can.”
“Charles is a true war hero,” Megan piped up, her voice high with excitement. “He was decorated many times over. In particular the Army chose to honor Charles with the George Cross.”
Elaine smiled. “I would be delighted,” she said, with total honesty. She could listen for hours to old-timers telling their war stories. It wasn’t her period—she had much more interest in the pioneer women and men who opened up the expanses of North America—but there weren’t many pioneers left for her to talk to. “Perhaps we can find an opportunity to get together over the weekend.”
Charles Stoughton preened. It had been a long time since someone had wanted him to talk about his youth.
“Later, later.” Moira drew Elaine away from the circle of the elderly, by the force of her personality if nothing else. She was visibly tiring on the braces.
A gaggle of teenagers leaned up against the far wall, looking even more out of place than Elaine herself in this elegant setting. At Moira’s arrival the group fell silent.
“My great-nieces and nephews,” she told Elaine.
They were two girls and a boy. All with shiny hair and rows of straight white teeth.
“Welcome to the Castle of Darkness. I’m Phoebe. These two know-nothings are Amber and Brad,” said a dark-haired girl whose makeup had been applied with an extremely heavy hand. Thick black circles rimmed her eyes; dark brown eye shadow, pale foundation and lipstick a deep plum all gave her a look approaching macabre. But her teeth shone, and the sparkle in the dark eyes struggled with her vampiric image. In honor of the season, she wore a jeweled turkey on her left shoulder, the brown and orange of the brooch the only color in a head to toe expanse of black.
“Castle of Darkness, an interesting name.” Out of the corner of her eye Elaine saw Ruth helping Moira to a comfortable leather chair before the gigantic fire.
The young people turned away to giggle at a shared joke, which left Elaine feeling quite self-conscious amongst this group of relatives. She sought out the company of people more her own age. An attractive couple stood by the French doors, talking to Charles. The woman was thin and delicate in an oatmeal linen jacket over a deep blue raw silk blouse and beige slacks. The man wore a country sweater colored with the flavor of autumn woods.
The talk was about the stock exchange, the economy, and the fortunes (apparently bleak) of the Canadian dollar. Elaine clutched her glass and forced a smile.
“Such a boring conversation. But they do insist on talking about the same things every time we get together.” The woman detached herself from the group and smiled at Elaine. “I’m Alison. I noticed that you’ve already met my mother, Maeve. And this is my husband, Elliot.”
The man’s gaze passed over her and dismissed her instantly. He returned to what Charles was saying.
Screw you, too, buddy.
“I must tell you that most of my family aren’t at all happy about Auntie Moira recording our history for all the busybodies in the neighborhood to enjoy. But I think it’s quite wonderful.” Alison fingered the toothpick that skewered an olive securely in her cocktail. “I spoke to Donna briefly about it. I’m so sorry that I didn’t have a chance to get to know her better.”
“With all due respect, Moira, I must insist that you do something about those people.” Charles Stoughton’s deep baritone rose above the polite chatter of cocktail party conversation, John Lee Hooker, and irritated dogs. “The place is turning into a hippie camping ground. You’re here practically by yourself all week, you can’t have these…people…hanging around.”
“I thank you for your concern, Charles.” Moira’s voice was as sharp as steel. “But I don’t think that it’s any of your business, now is it?”
All conversation ceased as the gathering turned to watch. Charles had abandoned Elliot to loom over a tiny Moira sitting proudly erect in the best chair. “It is very much my business. I am after all the head of this family….”
Moira snorted. “I never could understand quite what makes you think that, Mr. Stoughton.”
He grimaced but held his ground. “This property belongs to my wife as much as to you, and the occupation of the island is of considerable concern to her.”
“Then she may speak to me of it at another time. Not that I’ll do anything, of course. They’re my guests and welcome here as long as I say so.”
“You tell him, Auntie.” Phoebe grinned broadly. “Poor old Grandpa never could stand up to Auntie Moira,” she whispered, “but he keeps on trying.”
“What are they arguing about?” Elaine asked.
“In reality, they’re arguing over the pecking order in this family. As the eldest surviving male, although only by marriage, Grandpa thinks he is the head of the family. As the oldest surviving child of the Madisons, Auntie Moira knows that she is. But tonight, they’re fighting about the people Auntie is letting camp over on the island.”
“You must see sense, Moira,” Charles said, his sculpted face erupting into undignified red splotches. “This can’t continue.” He held up one arm and jabbed a finger in the air to make his point. The old woman calmly raised her brace and smacked him on the side of his hand.
“That is quite enough.” Maeve, the redheaded sister, pushed her way between them. “We do not discuss our family differences in front of outsiders.”
Phoebe giggled. “That means you,” she said to Elaine. “The servants don’t matter.”
“Dinner is served,” Lizzie announced from the doorway, her voice resounding with the spirit of centuries of staff speaking those same words. But she couldn’t quite pull it off and she sounded more like a bad actor in a third rate amateur production of an English farce.
Lizzie’s words had broken the tension and the company filed out for dinner. “Let me help you, Auntie.” Phoebe rushed to help Moir
a to her feet. Ruth brought the wheelchair and Phoebe guided her great-aunt into it.
“Do walk with us, Elaine,” Moira said, summoning her with a wave of one frail hand. “Have you met Phoebe? Good. You may take me in, dear.”
Extensions had been placed in the table so that it ran the length of the dining room. An impressive array of starched white linen, sparkling silverware, fine leaded crystal, pale blue and white china, and silver chargers glowed under the light of candles resting in highly polished silver candelabra.
But it was the pictures that attracted Elaine every time she came into this room. The wall above the heavy antique sideboard was covered with a mass of photographs of the family throughout the years. There were pictures of swimmers in one-shouldered men’s bathing suits or gruesome ruffled caps. Of boating parties, dressed in tweed jackets and ties, or corseted dresses and ornate hats. Of serious-faced picnickers sitting on blankets, the men wearing cloth caps and in shirt sleeves, but still sporting the ubiquitous dark tie, the women in stiff summer dresses and stiffer hair and hideously ugly, clunky black shoes. Picture after picture of somber elders and laughing children.
While everyone took their places at the table, Elaine stepped closer to admire one sepia photograph of a large group just disembarked from the lake steamer. She recognized the location of the dock and the lake beyond, but the people were from another world. The men were dressed in suits and hats, ties knotted tightly, many sporting enormous black moustaches. The women’s dresses, ornately festooned in flurries of ribbons and bows, skimmed their ankles, and their heads were topped by straw hats the size of umbrellas. Even the children wore either miniature suit and tie or frilly dress. A massive pile of luggage was assembled on the dock, and in the background the steamer pulled away. Two maids in black dresses and stiffly starched white aprons and caps struggled under the weight of suitcases and hat bags, frozen permanently in time as they stared uncomfortably at the camera. A large man, enormous cigar stuffed into his mouth, waistcoat stretching over ample stomach, filled the foreground. It was Augustus Madison, whose portrait also overflowed the limited space of the staircase.
“I’ve invited the Josephesons for dinner tomorrow,” Moira said after the wine was poured and the soup served. “I do hope that is all right with you, Charles, dear.” Her smile was provocative.
The old man glowered at her.
“Grandpa, don’t be glum,” Phoebe said lightly. “You know you like old Mr. J. You’ve always said how much you do.”
Charles shrugged, but the edges of his mouth cracked under the thin moustache. His granddaughter knew him well. “He’s not a bad sort. Knew him in the war, he was a good lad, then.”
Tension broken, the conversation swirled around. Only the endless barking of the dogs spoiled the lovely evening.
“Why does everyone put up with those dogs?” Elaine whispered to Phoebe. “Don’t they ever stop barking?”
“As soon as Lizzie has the main course on the table, Alan will bring them in to be fed. That should quiet them down a bit. Aunt Moira loves them desperately, so what can we say? If you notice, Grandpa has turned his hearing aid down a bit, and Grandma can hardly hear a thing at the best of times. And the rest of us would never be quite brave enough to drum up the courage to say a word against them.”
A woman had been hired to serve as maid. She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs tucked under a neatly ironed white apron. The dress stretched across the expanse of her ample hips and stomach to the very edges of its seams. Elaine leaned back to allow her to collect the soup plate.
“I do hope you’re not going to let any of our family secrets into that book of yours, Moira,” Megan said, her thin voice rising above the chatter of dinner table conversation. “Don’t you let her, uh, uh…?”
“Elaine,” Phoebe said, loudly.
“Don’t you let Elaine air our dirty laundry.”
“Oh, do we have dirty laundry, Aunt Megan?” Amber laughed.
“Tell all, please do,” Brad said.
“I intend to tell this young woman the story of my life,” Moira said. “As I lived it. If some people don’t like what I say, then that’s their problem.”
“Yeah.” The boy raised one thumb.
“What’s that? What did she say?” Charles fumbled with his hearing aid. “Something about her memoirs?”
“Aunt Moira said that she’ll tell the truth and that’s that,” Alison said, pronouncing each word with precision.
The maid carried in the platter of roast beef and the table fell silent.
Chapter Ten
On her day off, exploring the countryside on her bicycle, Moira happened upon a traffic incident. A Canadian soldier riding a motorcycle had taken a corner much, much too fast. He couldn’t see around the hedge, but apparently didn’t consider that to be a problem. Fortunately he saw the young girl walking dreamily down the center of the lane at the last possible moment. Instead of killing her, the impact merely dislocated a few bones. On the girl. The soldier spent several months in the hospital regretting his love of speed. Moira jumped off her bicycle to attend to them while a passing farm hand ran for help. The girl was Catherine, the daughter of Burt and Betty the shop owners, and their effusive gratitude was beyond embarrassing.
Moira’s older brother, Ralph, was also stationed in England. She’d heard little from him, the news mostly passed through their mother or grandmother. But at last, in the early spring of 1942, they managed to organize leave at the same time. Moira took the morning train up to London.
The devastation took her breath away. They knew, of course, of what was happening in London and the other great cities of England. They heard the bombers overhead and watched the sky turning red night after night during the blitz. Bert and Betty had each lost a sibling in the rubble of the East End. Moira had seen some of it for herself that night at the movie theater, but she had not been back to London since. That day she realized that her imagination had scarcely understood the depth of the destruction. Their train wound through rows and rows of burned out homes and factories. Entire streets were reduced to piles of rubble, while the next road would stand in the sunlight, whole and untouched. Children played and women pushed prams through the ruins. A few pots of early geraniums filled window boxes as if to hold a defiant fist up to the enemy planes flying high above. The blitz had ended, although bombing raids could, and still did, plague the cities.
This train, like the one that had brought them from Liverpool, was jammed well past capacity with civilians, mostly women, and troops of any and all nationalities, including a group of dark, hard faced men in uniforms of traditional British khaki topped by full beards and turbans. Fascinated, Moira watched them out of the corner of her eye.
The journey from Surrey to London didn’t normally take long, but they came to a sudden, unexpected halt and sat in the middle of a farmer’s field for a long time. Cows on the track, tracks bombed out, an accident up ahead. The car swirled with rumor and speculation, everyone growing restless and bad tempered.
The hospital cook had packed her a picnic lunch consisting of two dry cheese sandwiches, thick slices of currant cake, and a thermos of overly sweet tea.
Moira had foolishly neglected to bring a book, so for lack of anything else to do she offered to share her sparse meal with a chubby, pasty-faced young woman of her own age sitting across from her. Delighted at the unexpected treat, the girl proudly told Moira that she was going to London to take a factory job. She was dressed in a heavily-mended, but clean and crisply ironed dress of pale blue, with a jaunty navy beret, which looked as if it had been bought specially for this journey. Her teeth were small and badly stained but she smiled brightly and chatted with enthusiasm while they waited. She didn’t want to stay on the farm, she told Moira, although she was valuable there, what with all the ignorant city girls being sent to replace the farm boys gone to the army. But her cousin, Nancy, had a job in a factory in London and had secured a place for her. This was her chance to escape
from the stifling confines of her family, and she was determined to make the most of it. Rose was her name, and she consumed most of the sandwiches and drank almost the entire contents of the thermos. But Moira didn’t mind, and she insisted that her new friend finish off the last slice of cake. She found it fascinating to listen to the harsh country accent as it told of a life she couldn’t imagine.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, then? A young man, I mean?” Moira asked as they watched nothing much happening in the cool green countryside.
“Well, there’s Davy Blake from the next farm over. He’s been thinking that we’ll be married ever since we were children playing in the haystacks together.” She chuckled and touched her index finger to the last currant hiding in the folds of the wax paper wrapping. “Least his mother has been thinking that. No knowing what Davy thinks. He’s not much for talking.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still on the farm. Essential worker. He’s plenty glad to be told he has to stay there. Poor Davy never had much of a wish to travel.”
“But you do?”
“Course, I do. Imagine, trapped in that old farmhouse for the rest of my life, fetching tea and crumpets for old Mrs. Blake. Mr. Blake is long gone, and Mrs. Blake has been old as long as I can remember. For all that she isn’t any older than me own mum.”
“Well, good for you,” Moira said, with feeling, “for wanting to see what else is out there before you have to settle down.”
They talked for a long time, about men and boys they had known, families and school and dreams. Moira toned her life story down considerably, declining to share information on the family’s Muskoka cottage, her private girls’ school, her mother’s army of servants, and the dinner parties attended by bank presidents and cabinet ministers. Instead she talked about meeting her brother in London and how her mother continued to beg her to come back home.
“Mothers,” Rose said.
The companionship made the delay fly past and soon they were underway again and the gentle fields were turning into grimy factories and long lines of bleak row houses. “Almost there,” Moira said, her excitement rising as she spoke.
