by Ruth Glover
Quinn nodded his approval and went to hitch the horse to the rig.
The sun was high overhead when Quinn put Alice into the buggy and handed a drowsy Billy to her waiting arms. Alice had roused herself to fix her hair and put on her hat, and though she was pale and tense, was much more in control than at any time that day. Tierney wondered just what the real Alice was like—out from under the influence of whatever it was she imbibed, whether cheering cordial or numbing laudanum.
Tierney stood with her arm around Barney watching the buggy pull out of the yard, then turned back to the house and the tasks awaiting her there. With the fire stoked and blazing and the piccalilli bubbling once again, she proceeded with the canning, trusting that, in the deprivation of winter, the tomato pickles would be acceptable, though overcooked.
Later, with the sun sinking toward the west, there came a light tap on the door. It opened to reveal the bronzed face of Robbie Dunbar, quickly turning darker still with the flush that mounted to his cheeks when it was Tierney who turned from the stove rather than Alice.
Tierney was stirring a mix of potatoes and onions in a frying pan, and at her elbow, ready to come from pan to table, were delectable scones such as Robbie hadn’t seen or tasted since leaving Binkiebrae.
If Robbie’s first reaction was “This is what it would be like to coom home of an evenin’ if—” he checked it before it reached his lips or even conscious thought. Robbie Dunbar was a man of character, and though that character had been flayed bitterly recently, it had found no way to honorably speak of his deep love to one woman while promised to another.
Consequently he stumbled a little. “Wha . . .” he began, his confusion and surprise showing in more than the color that flooded his face.
“Coom in, Robbie. Sit ye doon a bit, if ye will, and I’ll tell ye wha’s been happenin’.”
Barney crept near, to be gathered into the circle of Robbie’s arm and to eventually climb up on his lap while the story unfolded.
“So Quinn and Alice and Billy are probably in Prince Albert by now,” she finished, “and should be startin’ home anytime. I dinna ken what more a doctor can do than Quinn did, but he’ll have ointment, I suppose. I tell ye, Robbie, we had reason to be grateful for those bottles o’ Alice’s—withoot ’em that puir bairn couldna put up wi’ the pain.”
“You say Quinn wouldna let Alice hae any o’ the medicine hersel’?” Robbie asked. “How’d she seem, goin’ off like that withoot it?”
“Once she got used to the idea, she seemed to pull hersel’ together. Does she take that . . . that stuff all the time, Robbie?”
“Aye, all the time. An’ she’s a different person when she does—the laudanum makes her drowsy and slow, the cordial—well, she acts happy, cheerful, sort of. It takes a little gettin’ used to, the change in personality from one time to another. I sometimes wonder if I’ve met the real Alice.”
“Aye. I was thinkin’ the same. Well, sit up and eat, Robbie. Come, Barney, climb into your own chair now and eat your supper.”
For Robbie, sitting across the table from Tierney was both misery and ecstasy. Never had fried potatoes and onions tasted so like angels’ fare, never had tea so much resembled nectar. As for the scones, a reminder of home, family, and Binkiebrae, they were lighter than clouds on a summer day.
More than once, almost overcome, Robbie dropped his eyes to his plate, swallowing convulsively and commanding his exhilarated pulse to be still as he made an effort to bring his heart’s feelings into subjection to his head’s wisdom. The one cried out for satisfaction, the other commanded duty.
Once, raising his head, he looked straight into the amber eyes of Tierney Caulder and was lost. Starting to his feet to—he knew not what—rush to her side, perhaps, he was halted by the swift averting of her eyes, and her quick “An’ would ye like some more tatties, Robbie?”
Shaken at how nearly he had betrayed his word, Robbie sank back. Tierney fell silent, as though caught in the same torment of the moment.
Barney sat between them, slurping his milk and probably keeping restraint in the midst when desire threatened to put reason to rout.
Finally Tierney breathed deeply a few times and resumed eating, though it seemed her food, as his, had turned to sawdust in her mouth; even the scones failed to wheedle either of them to continue with their meal.
Was there ever a more unnatural, miserable situation! Sitting across the table from each other yet miles apart; lips locked while words threatened to tumble out. It was torture, Robbie concluded broodingly, and he savagely crumpled a scone in his fingers.
“Excuse me,” he said eventually, preparing to rise from the table and flee the house. “I’ll get on wi’ the chores. Allan is takin’ care o’ ours, as he often does these days. Between us we manage to keep all three places goin’—his, mine, this one. You coomin’ wi’ me, Barney lad?”
“When y’re done here, Robbie, will ye no’ stop by the Blooms’ on yer way home and tell ’em why Quinn and I aren’t back yet?”
Robbie promised to do so.
When the buggy pulled into the yard and Quinn, Alice, and a sleeping Billy unloaded, quiet reigned in the Hoy house. It was clean and shining, a dozen jars of piccalilli gleamed in the lamplight, Tierney sat reading by the same light, and Barney, in his much-washed and faded nightgown, slept on the nearby sofa.
But the kettle was simmering, and hastily Tierney poured water into the waiting teapot. Almost before the travelers had crossed the threshold, she was pulling scones from the warming oven, preparing to feed the weary adults when Billy should be carried up to his bed and Barney hugged and kissed and taken to bed also.
Over tea, Quinn and Alice told how the trip had gone—for them, and for Billy, who, with occasional drops of laudanum, had dozed his way to town and back.
“Lucky for us,” Quinn said, “the doc was in, and sober. There was some squalling and battling from Billy, but Doc got the burns cleaned and fresh ointment put on, professional bandages. Gave us medication to bring home.”
“It seems the burns aren’t as bad as we thought. The water wasn’t actually boiling,” Alice explained in a strained voice, “though it was hot enough, goodness knows.” She shuddered at the memory. “His eye, though, may have permanent damage. Oh, I pray not! I feel so responsible, so guilty—”
“Now, Alice,” Quinn said gently, as though they had gone over this ground before, “nobody is blaming you; try not to blame yourself, all right? It was the chicken’s squawk as much as anything that started the whole thing. Put it behind you, and get on with the healing.” Whether hers or Billy’s, Quinn didn’t specify.
Alice, weary and somewhat disheveled, managed to look queenly as her small head lifted, her narrow shoulders squared, and a glint of determination lit her delicate face.
“It doesn’t matter what you say, though you are very kind. I know I was responsible. And maybe it isn’t such a bad thing to know, after all. I’ve . . . I’ve not been myself ever since Barnabas died. Maybe it’s time to . . . to take hold again. As much, that is, as I’m able.”
Remembering that Alice was far from being well and that she had put in a day that would have taxed a strong woman, Tierney was stricken at her own pettiness where the fatally ill woman was concerned. Getting to her feet, she hastily cleaned up the table and all signs of the midnight repast.
“Get to bed, Alice,” she suggested. “Sleep while Billy sleeps, if you can.”
If Quinn saw Alice’s eyes stray to the cupboard and its empty corner, he didn’t mention it. It was only after Alice had taken a lamp and gone upstairs that Quinn, ushering Tierney before him, blew out the table lamp and turned to the door and the tired horse waiting there.
Whether he was awakened by the passing rig or had been on the edge of a restless sleep, Robbie didn’t know. But he tossed on his bed and knew without doubt it was Tierney and the manly, clean-cut, educated, capable, respectable, excellent—Robbie’s galling evaluation went on and on—Quinn Archer, pass
ing in the night. Together.
She hath done what she could,’” Pastor Parker Jones quoted. “Mark fourteen, verse eight.
“Our Sister Finnery,” he said, “reminds me of the woman with the alabaster box of ointment, who broke it and poured its contents on the head of the Master. The Bible hints that it was all she was able to do—she did what she could. We know she did it freely, in spite of criticism.”
The mourners—the good people of Bliss—nodded. A few wiped eyes damp with ready tears, a few murmured amen.
“Sister Finnery did what she could,” Parker Jones continued, his own voice thick with the depth of his feeling. “It may not have been what other followers of Jesus did for Him, but she offered the Lord her best. Who among us will ever forget her vibrant witness? I, as her pastor, was often uplifted and encouraged by her simple words of cheer when we met. We all benefited from her Wednesday night testimonies. Even the hard places that she faced, life’s difficult times, were touched and changed by her courage and her tenacious grip on God’s promises.”
In the little white schoolhouse, Jake, bereaved son, with no family member to comfort and sustain him, drooped sadly on a straight-backed chair in the front row, set out just ahead of the desks, sighing deeply from time to time. At his sides, two of the ladies of the congregation offered support, and other friends sat close by and all around, ready to do what they could but feeling sadly inadequate at this time of parting. Almost without exception they had been through the experience—and still they had no words to lighten the sorrow of others when it came to saying good-bye to a loved one.
“Jesus said that wherever the gospel would be preached, this woman’s act—anointing Him for His burial—would be remembered. And we remember it today, even as He said. And it helps us. It helps us think on the life and deeds of another good woman—Sister Grace Finnery. And we know that God, even now, is welcoming her to her heavenly home. Just think of it, folks! Think of the heavenly home that Jesus has been preparing—”
Heads lifted, quivering lips were stilled; eyes saw beyond the battered desks, the handmade coffin, the work-worn congregation, and they envisioned, with the pastor, the “land that is fairer than day” and rejoiced, “and by faith we can see it afar.”
They rose to their feet and sang it together . . .
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore . . .
It was their promise and pledge.
Middle of the week though it was (bodies did not keep well in the heat of summer, and burials were speedy), the people of Bliss had laid aside the pressing need to gather and store before winter’s icy blast would send them, like beavers, to shelter for the long, cold season. Pity the family with a death in winter! Often the corpse was shrouded and laid in state in a shed or granary, there to await the kinder, gentler season of spring, when spades went into the ground at last. And for reasons more than sowing; the Bliss cemetery population burgeoned, come spring.
His brief funeral talk concluded and the final prayer uttered, Parker Jones stepped to the side of Jake Finnery, there to speak words of comfort and consolation.
Arms straining and muscles bulging in the tight sleeves of their “Sunday” suits, four neighbors hefted the coffin of Sister Finnery to their shoulders and carried it through the schoolhouse and the hushed crowd, outside, and to a waiting wagon.
Parker Jones rode with Jake Finnery. What their conversation was on the trip to the cemetery, no one ever knew. But when they arrived, Jake’s shoulders were back and his head up, and his puffed eyes, waiting one more spate of tears at the interment, were filled with peace. Parker himself was pale, worn, as though he had poured his strength into all that had been done this day and yet remained to be done.
“Ashes to ashes . . .” he said, and Jake and others dropped a handful of good Saskatchewan soil into the gaping hole wherein the coffin rested, reminding one and all of their mortality. So little time, so much to do! They turned as one person back to the heavy burden of living. . . .
Molly, along with her parents, stood silently at the side of the grave, sharing the moment of final parting with their neighbor and friend, Jake Finnery. Because the Finnery house was now so bereft, so vacant, the meal that followed such an occasion would be transferred to the Morrison home. Molly would need to hurry away from the cemetery to reach home before the crowd, to help Mam, her grandmother who had remained at home, put the finishing touches on the repast.
Before she moved to the family wagon, Molly turned toward Parker and found herself hesitating. Ordinarily she would have moved, confident and sure, to Parker’s side, to squeeze his hand or pat his arm. I’m here, the touch would say, and I care.
But something, somehow, someway, had changed. Her very hesitation spoke of it. Grief, that was not for the day’s bereavement, touched her eyes.
Silly! she said sternly and silently, reproaching herself for her own foolish imaginings, and she took a step toward Parker Jones.
Stepped, and stopped. Stepped toward Parker and the face he raised toward her, lit with welcome. Stopped when Vivian Condon moved, lightly and quickly in between, her attention fixed on the minister.
It was, after all, Vivian’s hand that rested lightly, confidently, on the arm of Parker Jones. It was Vivian’s face that turned up to his; it was her voice that stopped his move toward Jake and the Finnery rig.
To be honest, Parker turned startled eyes, perhaps guarded eyes, on the young woman who stood looking up at him, coquettish in spite of the occasion. This much Molly saw before she turned away.
“Do you remember—” Vivian began, almost intimately.
Parker’s attention turned reluctantly from Molly to Vivian.
“Remember,” she continued confidingly, “I mentioned that I had something to talk to you about? Well, now that this . . .”—and her hand waved to include people and cemetery and grave—“is over and done with, I would like so much to continue with the topic . . . which is—very important. Truly,” she said persuasively, noting Parker’s hesitation, “you’ll find it so. I know you will.”
“Today,” Parker said, polite but firm, “is not a good day for it.” The girl’s persistence in the face of his duty toward Jake and his parishioners was surprising! Obviously she had little or no understanding of ecclesiastical concerns—
“Of course,” she said smoothly, quickly, “I know you have grave responsibilities—grave responsibilities . . . oh!” and Vivian put a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle the indiscretion that, she seemed to confess, was most naughty of her.
Parker Jones watched the slim back of Molly Morrison out of sight and felt a fury toward this stranger to the community who, by her very presence, had rather successfully exacerbated the restlessness he was already feeling in regard to his call to the ministry.
Under the gaze of nearby Herkimer Pinkard, watching with keen eyes from the farther side of his horse, Parker managed, gently enough, to remove the clinging hand from his arm, and say, “Another time, Miss Condon—Vivian. Now I really must go; Jake Finnery needs me, I believe.”
“But we will talk, won’t we?” she persisted. “Perhaps when we all get to the Morrisons’. Would that be a good time to talk . . . later on?”
“Yes, of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I believe your uncle and aunt are waiting for you.”
Parker turned toward Jake, who was receiving the last hugs and damp sympathies of the dispersing group, and together they mounted his buggy and wended their way toward the Morrison homestead. The day was flitting away, and soon every male there, and most females, would be called to the urgency of the chores awaiting them. Life would go on for these who remained in the bush, though one of their number had exchanged her cross for her crown. “Remember Sister Finnery . . .” they would say, and say it less and less as the days came and went and as the immediate burdens of life dimmed their vision of things other-worldly.
“Allow me,” a masculine voice said in Vivian’s ear.
St
artled, about to clamber into her uncle’s wagon where Bly and Beatrice waited, Vivian’s head jerked around to see at her side the large form of Herkimer Pinkard.
Reaching a callused, hairy hand, Herkimer took hold of Vivian’s elbow, firmly gripping it and lifting, helping her to the hub of the wagon wheel and on up over the wheel into the wagon box. Her assent was so fast it could almost be compared to dandelion fluff being tossed into the air.
Vivian’s hat, set awry by the motion, was tipped over one eye, an eye that was quickly changing from startled to angry.
“I’ll thank you—” she spluttered, then stopped in the face of Herkimer’s innocent expression.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” he said politely, doffing his hat and stepping back. “I expect I’ll be seeing you over at the Morrison place.”
“Nice fellow, Pinkard,” her uncle said reflectively as Vivian breathed deeply a few times and settled herself on the wagon seat.
“He’s nothing but a bumpkin, a country bumpkin!” Vivian fumed. Then, noting a strange expression on Uncle Bly’s face, added quickly, “Not that the country has anything to do with it. He’d be a bumpkin no matter where he was . . .”
“Maybe,” Bly said briefly, “maybe not.”
At any rate, Herkimer’s buggy followed the Condon wagon in the small cortege making its way from the cemetery to the Morrison home and the abundance spread there. Glancing back once, Vivian was chagrined to have Herkimer lift his head, smile largely, and wave, almost coyly.
“Yokel . . .” she muttered, her face flushing.
Beatrice, at Vivian’s side, looked uncomfortable, and Vivian subsided. Why had she come to the funeral anyway! She didn’t know the bereaved man and had only seen the deceased woman from across the room at church. Vivian sighed. What a bore—when attending a funeral offered entertainment in the dullness of one’s existence! And yet it had given her the opportunity to speak to the good-looking man of the cloth—Parker Jones, a challenge if she had ever met one.
