by Vicki Delany
“Almost there,” Rose echoed, her voice etched with apprehension.
Soldiers in the aisle gathered up their kit, eagerly stretching cramped legs. Women folded their knitting into voluminous cloth bags and packed away children’s books and tinker toys. The dark faced soldiers with the turbans rose to their feet like a soft, liquid mountain. One of them caught Moira staring at him and winked broadly. No longer ferocious, he was now just human. Human and handsome. She blushed deeply and turned back to her window.
“Sikhs, from India,” Rose whispered, her washed out blue eyes flashing with excitement. “Come all this way to help us win the war, I’ve heard. Great soldiers, my dad says. And it certainly don’t hurt that they’re so handsome. He’s watching you, that big one.” She gave the soldier a coy smile and cocked her head flirtatiously to one side. Moira cringed in embarrassment and stared at the city passing outside her window.
The station was a pandemonium of churning bodies, thrashing suitcases and handbags, crying children, shouting soldiers and dangerous trolleys overloaded with luggage and boxes. Rose clung to Moira’s arm. “Where are you off to?” Moira asked, attempting to disengage the fingers digging into her arm like a limpet. “It’s been wonderful to meet you. Let’s keep in touch, shall we?”
Rose twisted a scrap of paper in her hands. “Me mother’s cousin, Maureen, Nancy’s mum. I have the directions right here.”
“You don’t have to wait with me, if you have to be on your way. I’m sure my brother will be along in a moment.” Moira was sure of no such thing. Their train was so late arriving that she expected that he would have given up the wait and abandoned her. Ralph, her older brother, handsome, smart, charming, the family favorite as well as her own idol, was a man now, a lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Army. But she suspected that he could still be as irresponsible as that skinny boy playing on the dock off Lake Muskoka. The one who threw his school friend into the water and walked away before checking if the lad could swim. (He couldn’t and fortunately for all concerned the head gardener, weeding the flowerbeds that butted up against the flagstone path, could.) She would wait until the crowd had thinned and if her dear brother still didn’t appear, well, she had the address of the hotel he’d booked her into. (Pray he had managed that at least.)
“I couldn’t possibly leave you here all alone,” Rose said, trying to smile. “I’ll wait with you.”
At that moment Moira caught sight of the flaming cloud of hair passing above the horde. As if they knew he was a Madison, the crowd seemed to step aside to clear the way for her brother. He was taller than everyone around him and his crown of red hair shone like the Holy Grail against the grime and smoke of the station. He was even handsomer than she remembered, strong and confident in his plain army uniform. He’d lost a good deal of weight and built up muscle in its place. It suited him.
His face lit up at the sight of her and he rushed forward, hands outstretched. They fell into each other’s embrace and hugged until ribs were on the verge of breaking.
“You look so wonderful,” Moira gasped, stepping back.
“And so do you, M., so do you. All grown up. Imagine. That is surely the ugliest uniform on the face of the earth. They must have designed it to strike terror into the hearts of lonely young men. But if anyone can do it justice, that someone is you.”
Moira was extraordinarily proud of her plain brown uniform with the flat hat, double row of buttons, leather belt, and jacket with sharp white cuffs and collar. To her it spoke of history and pride, dignity, service, and sacrifice. But she was so happy to see her brother that she allowed his remarks to roll off her shoulders.
There was gentle coughing behind Ralph and a smiling young man stepped forward and held out one hand. He was exceedingly thin and his uniform, identical to her brother’s, hung on him as if it had been made for another, much larger, person. “Miss Madison. So thrilled to meet you at long last.”
Ralph laughed. “I see that I am forced to introduce this vagabond to my sister. Charlie Stoughton. My sister, Moira. And hands off all around.”
Charlie actually kissed Moira’s hand.
A gentle nudge at her back and Moira remembered her manners. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I have a friend as well. This is Rose—uh—Rose?”
“Robinson.”
“Rose Robinson. We met on the train. Rose’s got a job doing war work in London.”
“Lots of that, I hear,” Ralph said. His dark eyes scarcely flickered as he glanced at Rose and turned back to his sister. “I have booked one of the best hotels in all London. Time for a bit of a wash and a nap and the town is ours. Let’s see if we can find a cab, shall we?”
Moira cringed in embarrassment. Her brother had summed up her new friend in one glance that lasted less than a second and dismissed her as not worth his while.
“Let me carry your bag, Miss Madison.” Rose already forgotten, Charlie picked up Moira’s suitcase. He was no doubt a nice young man, but Ralph would have selected him as a friend mostly because he would be trusted to follow Ralph’s lead.
She loved her brother dearly. Who didn’t love Ralph? But he could be such a spoiled brat sometimes. “Actually I promised Rose tea at the hotel and then a cab ride to her cousin’s home. I’m sure we can all fit into a cab, don’t you think?” she smiled brightly. “Come along everyone. We’re going to have such fun.”
Moira linked her arm through Rose’s and pulled the open mouthed young woman after her. Lieutenant Charlie Stoughton relieved the English girl of her cheap cardboard suitcase and followed them across the crowded platform.
Chapter Eleven
Elaine blew yet another cobweb out of her face as she bent to examine yet another box. This dark, damp, cluttered, moldy, and spider-infested loft was an historian’s dream. Decades of the family’s mementos and cast-offs were stored in the upper level of what had once been a guesthouse. The cabin was situated only a few yards to the left of the main building. It consisted of one open room, once a seating area, now used to store gardening paraphernalia, handyman’s tools, summer furniture, lounge chair cushions, water sports equipment, even a shiny wooden canoe. Steep stairs led up to what had formerly been a sleeping loft. Which was where Elaine sat, happily surrounded by boxes and more boxes of correspondence, social invitations, announcements, newspaper cuttings, household accounts, photographs, and assorted memorabilia.
They filled her head with the sweet scent of forgotten stacks of moldy old papers and legions of memories. She had carried her portable CD player up the stairs and the Indigo Girls sang to her while she worked. The loft was poorly insulated, so she had also brought up a small electric heater.
Why, oh why, she asked herself, did she abandon all this to write screenplays of all things? She’d earned her PhD in Canadian history and set out to pursue an academic career. Jobs at universities teaching Canadian history were pitifully thin, and when she did, finally, secure the long dreamed for position, she hated it. Dull, unenthusiastic students, full professors sound asleep under layers of dust, inadequate funding, and university politics drove her screaming from the field.
Instead she took advantage of a tiny inheritance from her grandmother and spent an astonishing two years researching and writing Goldrush, the story of the women who followed, accompanied, or preceded the men up the perilous Chilkoot trail leading from Alaska across the mountains to the goldfields of the Yukon—the promised land. For a history, Goldrush was a huge success, and it catapulted Elaine into the top rank of Canadian non-fiction writers. Into the Bush followed soon after, the story of women and their families struggling to carve a home out of the early 19th century wilderness. The title was a risk: a direct reference to Susanna Moodie’s famous Roughing It in the Bush. Unlike Elaine’s scholarly perspective, Susanna lived that which she wrote. But the modern work was received with critical and popular enthusiasm, accompanied by unprecedented sales, and Elaine was on a roll.
A roll that she abandoned for love.
She had
been easily persuaded (far, far too easily, she would later reflect bitterly) to give up her own blossoming career and help Ian with his screenplays. He dangled visions of Hollywood and million-dollar contracts in front of her love struck eyes. They lived off the profits of Goldrush and Into the Bush until Ian started selling a few dramas to Canadian television. But the big break always remained out of reach and Elaine grew exceedingly tired of the tedious, mind numbing movie plots they were churning out. Loyally, she continued churning and said nothing.
Finally the great day came: Ian sold the options to his screenplay to a major Hollywood studio. And promptly abandoned Elaine for a more Hollywood-friendly emaciated blond bimbo in her early twenties.
This was what Elaine loved—what she held in her hands here and now. The scent of mildew on old papers, the crackle of photographs exposed to the light of day for the first time in decades, the excitement of reading just one more letter. Musty, abandoned rooms and sealed tea chests.
A commemorative plate, the type designed to hang in pride of place on a 19th century drawing room wall, lay on top of the first box she’d cracked open. It bore the images of two rather stuffy old men, dressed in stiff military uniforms with matching moustaches, and the slogan in flowing gold script: Conquer or Die.
Elaine had to have it. She hoped she could persuade Moira to give it to her. After all, it wasn’t doing anyone any good in this box.
“Thanks for giving me a hand,” Elaine said to the woman working beside her. “It’s nice of you to sacrifice your holiday weekend.”
Phoebe had enthusiastically stepped in to help wipe dust and mouse droppings off the boxes and drag them into a long line waiting for inspection. She rubbed a cobweb off the end of her nose, and managed to wipe a good sprinkling of dust across it at the same time. “It’s no problem. My cousins are going into Port Carling to shop and I’d do about anything to avoid that. The other choice is cards in the drawing room with Auntie Maeve and Grandma and Aunt Alison.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine anything worse?”
Elaine laughed, “I can’t imagine it at all. We didn’t have a drawing room when I was growing up.”
“Meanwhile Uncle Elliot and Grandpa are prowling the grounds looking for something to complain about. Perhaps Alan will let the dogs loose on them.” Phoebe chuckled, and blew another cobweb out of her way. “Don’t you think he’s quite a babe?”
Elaine pretended to misunderstand. “Your grandpa? Definitely, in an older, sort of classic movie way. He reminds me a bit of Clark Gable. If I were but forty, fifty years older I could quite happily set my cap for him.”
“No silly, Alan. He’d be perfect for you. I assume you’re not married.”
“We have work to do here. It won’t get done by itself.” Elaine pulled a stack of letters out of a shoebox tucked into a tea chest. The letters were tied up in a fragile ribbon that only remembered once being blue. A quick flick through them showed that they were from Ralph, the war-dead son, and all from England, dated 1941-1943. She carefully put the letters aside for later, thoughtful reading.
At the bottom of the box she found a picture. An amazingly handsome young man, in World War Two Royal Canadian Army uniform, standing under the wing of an aircraft. In her ever-present notebook, Elaine made a note to look up the type of plane. Behind him she could see smaller, faded figures dashing about, but the young man stood alone, one hand resting possessively on the metal skin of the aircraft. She imagined that she could see a hit of a grin at the edges of his mouth, the eyes crinkled upwards in laughter. He wore his uniform like he was born to it.
“What have you got there?” Phoebe crawled over on her hands and knees to peer at the picture in Elaine’s hand. It was creased badly around the edges from damp. There were other pictures of him, among the family photos in the dining room and on the stairs with Elizabeth and Augustus. But this one, it was amazing.
“Who’s this?” Elaine asked, although she didn’t have to.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Ralph Madison. Auntie Moira and Aunt Maeve and Grandma’s older brother. He died in World War Two. He was in the army or something. They say his death killed my great-grandfather.”
Elaine tucked the picture under the blue ribbon, to keep company with his letters. The rest of the day, as she dug through boxes, deciphered household accounts, read records of parties given and attended, handled letters fading to dust, and examined silver cup awards from regattas and horse jumping competitions long past, her eyes returned again and again to the cracked and faded picture.
“How did he die?” Elaine asked Phoebe as the light coming through the windows faded, and they gathered up the day’s haul for Elaine to take to her room to catalogue and read into the night.
“Who?”
“Ralph.”
“I don’t know, only that it was in the war. Ask Aunt Moira. She knows everything about the family.”
Elaine was sitting by the window at the back of the loft. She heard the sound of a car engine and looked up idly to see an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser pull up. An officer and a man in civilian clothes got out and walked towards the cottage door. They disappeared from her view.
“The police are here,” Elaine said. “What do you suppose they want?”
“More questions about Donna, I’d imagine,” Phoebe sighed.
“What sort of questions?”
“No one’s said anything, but I’m convinced that they aren’t entirely satisfied that her death was an accident. Even though that was the coroner’s conclusion.”
“Not an accident? What does that mean?”
“She was a young woman, in good health. She went for a walk down on the dock after dark and fell into the lake. No one noticed she was missing, and the body wasn’t discovered until the next morning. She didn’t have a heart attack, there are no loose boards or anything to trip over. Even if it happened after everyone had gone to bed and the house lights had been turned out, there was a bright moon that night, no clouds.”
“Were you here?”
“Yup. It was my mom’s fiftieth birthday, so practically the whole family came up for the party and the long weekend.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Me? I think she tripped over her own feet. Heck, I’ve done it myself more than once. Unfortunately she fell in the lake and couldn’t swim, and either the party was going hard or it was over and we’d all gone to bed, so no one heard her calling for help. The cops up here don’t have much to do other than chase drinkers on boats or break up bar fights so they’d love to get their hands on a nice juicy murder investigation. But why would anyone kill Donna? Other than Auntie Moira and Ruth, not one of us had laid eyes on her until the day before she died.”
***
As was becoming their custom, Elaine met with Moira in her study before dinner.
“I’d like you to tell me more about your brother, Ralph, if you could,” she said, switching on her tape recorder.
“Why?” Moira was tired and almost as faded as the picture of her brother, the skin on her face as thin as a single layer of Japanese rice paper. The invasion of relatives wasn’t doing her any good.
“If you’re tired, we can talk tomorrow.”
“I’m not tired,” Moira snapped. Ruth rushed over to wrap a blanket more securely around the old woman’s shoulders. Moira pushed her off with as much strength as she could muster.
“Why does everyone keep fussing over me? I have trouble walking but I’m not a total incompetent, not yet. For heaven’s sake, Ruth. Haven’t you got anything better to do? Go and ask Lizzie what time the Josephesons are due.”
The study door closed with a bang.
“You’re awfully rude to Ruth.” Elaine had been told more than once that her straightforward honesty wasn’t one of her better features.
The brown eyes looked at her. “Am I? And what would you know of being rude, young woman? Of being confined to this cursed chair all day. Of not being able to enjoy a bowl of Lizzie’s fabulou
s pasta e fagoli without the majority of it dripping down the front of your favorite Merino wool sweater. Of needing help to get to your feet, or into bed, or even attending to your most private functions. What would you know of all of that?”
“Nothing,” said Elaine. “Absolutely nothing. But I do know about rudeness and taking people for granted.”
Moira snorted and changed the subject. “The Josephesons are coming for dinner tonight. They’re old friends of the family.”
“Tell me about your brother, Ralph.” Elaine also could change the subject if she had a mind to.
“What do you want to know?”
“We talked about his childhood, but I’d like to hear more about him. I found some of his letters. I’ll start reading them tonight. It would be helpful if I could have your impression first.”
“Why?”
Elaine sighed. Did this woman have to argue about everything? “These are supposed to be your memoirs, Moira. So we will see everyone through your eyes, won’t we? Tell me about Ralph.”
“Ralph, indeed, what to say? My dear brother Ralph. The golden boy. Everyone said he was fabulously handsome. But I never noticed it. Sisters don’t, I suppose. He was away at school most of the time, and when he came home or up to the cottage it was usually with a crowd of boys. All of them dressed alike, and clamoring for his attention. He chose his friends carefully, boys who would hang on to his every word. I remember that last summer, in ’39. All the talk among the men was the tensions in Europe and that upstart Hitler, as they called him. They stopped talking the minute one of the women or girls entered the room. Didn’t want to upset us. As if we wouldn’t find out soon enough, and be a good deal more than upset. I was quite wonderful at hiding behind doors or under staircases in my younger days, so I usually caught a bit of what went on.
“But as for Ralph, the golden Ralph. He couldn’t wait to rush off to war, to teach Mr. Hitler a lesson, he said. I always thought he was a bit too eager, Ralph. What did he know, or care, about Hitler and the oppressed peoples of Europe. I often wondered….”
