by Jean Little
Olivia saw me skipping and looked scandalized, but I did not care. I wanted to tell her to try it herself.
Wednesday afternoon, June 18, 1902
I am writing while Davy naps. I am grateful to him. He sleeps a lot, which gives me an excuse for escaping upstairs. I can hardly believe how much I write. Downstairs there is always somebody wanting to sympathize. I’ve had all the sympathy I can stand. Maybe, when Davy wakes up, I’ll take him and go visit Miss Radcliffe again. It would be a break from this house of grief and I could thank her for What Katy Did. I love it.
Later
I did take Davy to Miss Radcliffe’s and we had a lovely few minutes. But I knew I shouldn’t stay.
When we got home, Father’s lawyer came to see Mother. I believe there is more wrong than Father’s dying. Mr. Burroughs spent ages with her. He closed the parlour door firmly and kept his voice low. After he left, she did not come out for ages and, when she did, she looked so tired I almost cried like Olivia.
She went straight to the kitchen and began bringing food to the table.
John asked her what the man had wanted but she shook her head.
“Not now, John,” she said. “I cannot face another session about our problems. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Nearly twelve o’clock
After everyone had gone to bed, I could not sleep again. So I crept down to get myself a drink of milk. I saw Mother through the open kitchen door. She had her head buried in her crossed arms and she was weeping. I almost ran to hug her, but then I didn’t. She would not have wanted me to see her so distressed.
I forgot about getting milk and tiptoed away. When I was halfway up the stairs, a breeze blew in the landing window, bringing the sweet scent of roses. How can something be so lovely while everything else is terrible? There is so much about life that I do not understand.
Thursday, June 19, 1902
Today the minister took John to the hearing into Father’s accident. When John came home, he looked years older. They had brought in a verdict of “No negligence.” Mother had to explain this to us. It means that the company will not give Mother any money to help her pay the bills, because it was not their fault Father was killed that way.
But he did not make the scaffolding collapse. Billy told us that one of the supports had not been properly anchored. John wanted to ask whose fault it was then, but they did not let him speak.
None of the men looked at him, he told us. They said they were sorry and our father would be missed, but they never once looked him in the face. Mother asked Reverend Bricker what he thought of their decision.
“It is shameful, but I doubt you can get it changed,” he said. He thinks the men will keep to their story and claim that Father must have tripped and caused the accident himself. They fear they will lose their jobs if they name the guilty party.
“The Brigson boy says he saw what happened,” Reverend Bricker went on. “But nobody will accept the word of a child. I believe they plan to take up a collection to help you. But I doubt that anybody will officially admit responsibility. And once they give you whatever is offered, there won’t be any more. We’ll ask the congregation to help, but I fear that won’t amount to much.”
John lost his temper then and started pacing back and forth like a wild beast and shaking his fist in the air. But Mother told him it would do no good. She looked pale and weary, and the minister left after making a short prayer. I shut my eyes and tried to listen to him, but Reverend Bricker was muttering the words and hurrying. I could not take it in.
Later
I just remembered something puzzling that happened while all the people were here after the funeral. One of the ladies asked Mother if we had family we could turn to for support and Mother said, “Yes.” I was amazed. I wanted to ask her who, but I couldn’t. The lady would have expected me to know. What did Mother mean? I remember Grandpa, but he died when I was little. I had never heard of any other relations. I have kept meaning to ask, but there were always so many people around watching us and listening in when we talked to each other.
This afternoon, after we had finished eating, Mother told us what the lawyer had said. It turns out that Father was in debt when he died and left us next to no money. He was earning, of course, and had no idea he would not live into old age and pay back what he owed.
John stood up when she began and tramped up and down. It is hard to believe that Olivia is older than John — but then, she was only ten months old when he was born. But I suppose it’s because more is expected of him since he’s a boy.
I’m too tired to go on now. It was so surprising and so complicated after that. But I will tell it all tomorrow.
Bedtime
I don’t want to have to tell all of what came next, but I’ll try. It was so startling.
When John paced about, Mother watched him and I could see she felt sorry for him. But she was impatient too.
He wheeled to face her when she paused. “What did he spend it on?” he demanded, glaring at her, as though she, not Father, had wasted the money.
Mother kept her voice level and said that Father made investments which he thought would bring him a fortune, and he loaned money to friends in trouble. “Never mind, John,” she said. “That is past and it won’t help us to dwell on it. Right now we must make plans for the future.”
“What future? How can we make plans with no money?” John shouted at her.
Mother drew in a deep breath, smiled at him and calmly announced that she had written to her brother Martin for help.
John sank down in the nearest chair and stared at her, open-mouthed. Olivia and I were just as stunned. None of us had ever heard of any uncle.
“You don’t have a brother,” John said uncertainly.
“Oh yes I do,” she replied. It turns out that her brother’s name is Martin Hill and he’s eleven years older. He and his wife, Aunt Susan, have recently begun running a hotel in a coal mining town in the Rocky Mountains. Mother says she asked Uncle Martin if they could use some help. She told him we were good at washing dishes and peeling potatoes and sweeping floors and even chopping wood. “If he would welcome us, how would you all feel about packing up and moving west?” she asked us. She was grinning! I suppose we must have looked pretty funny.
We gaped at her. Nobody spoke. We were too flabbergasted. Ten minutes before, we had not known we had an uncle. Now she was not only telling us he existed, but that he had a wife and son. What’s more, she was suggesting we leave Montreal and go to live with these people we had never known existed.
We could not believe what she was saying. If this man was really our uncle, why had she kept him a secret?
She took a deep breath and began to explain. She said she could understand why we thought she must be joking, since she had never spoken to any of us about him. Our father and our uncle quarrelled years ago, and Father insisted that Uncle Martin stay out of our lives. “Sam tried to make me promise not to write to him,” Mother said, and she let Father think that she stopped, but she and Uncle Martin kept in touch.
“What did they fight about?” John asked.
She did not answer right away. But finally she said that Uncle Martin sent her money when he knew we were hard up. Our father was insulted. He said we did not need charity and made Mother return the money. When Uncle Martin wrote to try to persuade him to take the help, Father sent the letter back without opening it. “It was nonsensical,” Mother finished, “but your father was a stubborn man and never one to back down.”
The three of us were dumbfounded by the story. Finally John, sounding unsure, asked what our uncle was like.
Mother gazed out the window and thought about her answer. Then she smiled. “When I was a child, I worshipped him,” she said softly. “Our parents didn’t believe in giving children sweets, but when Martin began earning, he would buy me a bag of humbugs or peppermints and slip them to me in secret.”
“And he runs a hotel?” Olivia asked.
“Yes. As I
said, he and Susan have just bought a hotel in a mining town in the North-West Territories. They hope to get established while the town is new. It has been a struggle, I believe, and I think they might be grateful for our help.”
Mother said all this in a matter-of-fact voice, as though she had no idea how her words shocked us. I realized later that this was because she had had time to think the idea over, while we had not. We were totally stunned. We still are. Move to the North-West Territories! It sounds like a pipe dream. To me, the Rocky Mountains are as far away as the moon.
John asked if our uncle was rich.
I think Mother counted to ten before she answered. Her lips tightened and her knuckles turned white.
Then she said he wasn’t, but that there is always a lot of work to do in a hotel, especially one that has just been built a year ago.
She decided to write Uncle Martin after she learned, from Mr. Burroughs, that Father had left us in such desperate straits. Clearly, she had had no idea how Father had left things. But she did think her brother would come to our rescue.
Olivia had perked up by then. The two of us were full of questions, but she asked hers outright.
“How old is their son?” she asked.
Mother smiled at her. I think she was relieved to change the subject.
“He’s about your age,” she said. “His name is Mark. They just have the one boy.”
I was not thinking about Mark. I was trying to imagine us moving so many miles away when John’s next words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
I can’t go on about it, not now. But I’ll be back.
Friday, June 20, 1902
I still can’t believe what John said.
“You do realize we cannot take Davy with us if we go,” he declared.
I gasped. I could not believe my ears. Caring for Davy on such a long train journey would be hard, of course. But how could John think of leaving him behind?
I saw my shock mirrored on Mother’s face. She stared at John as though he had turned green or grown horns.
He flushed and glared back but he did not back down. “What help could he be in a hotel? Face it, Mother. He can’t do a thing, not even look after himself.”
Mother’s face changed. The look she gave him made me shiver. Finally she said, “I might leave you, John. You are sixteen and surely could find a way to support yourself. Davy, however, is utterly dependent upon us.”
John began to argue. He was trying to shout her down but she kept speaking, giving him no chance to interrupt.
“Before you suggest I put your brother into an asylum, I will take you to visit one. Afterwards, when you have seen what you are talking about, we can discuss it again.”
John’s face grew dark. When he swung to face her, he stuttered. “But … but, Mother,” he began, “I am sure, if Uncle Martin and Aunt Susan knew …”
“They do know,” Mother snapped. “I have told them about him. I told them about all of you. We have not written frequently, but we did keep in touch.”
This time, nobody spoke while she caught her breath. Then she added, “When we get an answer to my letter, we’ll talk again. Now I am going to bed.”
And, without another word, she went.
After a break to rest my hand
I was glad to escape to my room, where I can lie and think over everything.
Mostly I thought about Davy. He did not grow like an ordinary baby, but he did not die the way the doctor thought he might. One day, I overheard one of the ladies at church tell another that she thought his dying would have been a blessing.
When I told Mother, she said, “Consider where it comes from and ignore it.”
But her eyes flashed.
Davy himself IS a blessing, even though he does need a lot of care. Not that long ago, Father said we should not have kept him because he would soon become too heavy for me to carry. He kept harping on the subject of Davy’s future as though it were a sore tooth he had to keep poking
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Mother would tell him. I think she cannot imagine Davy becoming a man. He gets the croup often and has almost died twice already.
We cannot go to Uncle Martin’s without him. But I need not fuss because I know Mother will not let it happen, whatever John says.
Bedtime
No letter today. These days seem longer than any I have lived through before. I keep wanting to go and move the hands of the clock ahead.
I can tell that Olivia feels the same way. She plays the piano by the hour. This sometimes helps, to tell the truth. If only she did not always play such mournful pieces. Yesterday, I told her to play “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey,” and she looked at me as though I had spat on the Bible.
John is never home, or if he is, he’s studying for his exams.
To make matters worse, Davy was sick today. He choked and then threw up. But we got through it.
Saturday, June 21, 1902
We had company all day. Cousins of Father’s I’d never met before. I don’t think I’d ever heard of them. Second cousins once removed or some such thing. Mother was polite but I could tell she did not like them any more than I did. I am sure they just came to see how things stood.
Once they were out the door, I muttered, “Nosy Parkers.”
Mother looked at me. “Abby, that is rude,” she said. “It is true, mind you, but it is also rude.”
Her eyes were laughing so I knew she was not really angry.
Sunday, June 22, 1902
Mother has started cleaning the house with a vengeance. She has totally given up resting on the Sabbath. She is getting ready to leave. Yet this seems impossible. We have lived here as far back as I can remember. Even if this house is rented, it feels like ours.
This morning, I heard Mother laughing and went to see what the joke was. She had found a diary she wrote when she was fifteen. She let me take it away to read. It is funny, but it is also dull. There is so much about the weather and what they have for dinner. It is not at all like this notebook. I am determined not to write such dull stuff. I have nothing to say about the weather! Her sentences are too short and chopped up. Here’s a typical day.
Went to school. Had stew for supper. Very cold out. Rained in afternoon. I hate helping with housework. It is never finished.
I should not say so, but I am a better writer than Mother was. Why does it matter that it rained? I agree with the bit about housework though.
Monday, June 23, 1902
Uncle Martin sent us a telegram to say we were all welcome and a letter would follow. I was the one who answered the door and there stood the boy with the telegram in his hand. I did not know what to do for a minute. I don’t ever remember a telegram coming to us before. It was so good of Uncle Martin to let us know that way.
Mother read it aloud. It said: COME ONE, COME ALL. WE HAVE ROOM AND NEED HELP. LETTER FOLLOWING. LOTS OF LOVE, MARTIN.
Her eyes shone. I did not guess quite how anxious she had been until I saw how relieved she was. I hope the letter does not take a long time coming. We are full of questions.
Tuesday, June 24, 1902
Everything is at sixes and sevens. Mother is carrying on with more housecleaning. Not just dusting, but scrubbing, moving every stick of furniture, washing curtains and bedding and whatever else is in the linen closet. Even walls! I can’t see why it matters. I am too tired to write about it.
Davy has to be kept out of trouble while I work on other tasks. I stop still, every so often, trying to convince myself that my world is soon going to change utterly! I can’t make it feel real.
I’ll write again when Uncle Martin’s letter arrives.
Thursday, June 26, 1902
Mother told us today that we will be leaving on July 14. She has the tickets. And she is getting ready to sell most of our things. It is called an auction of household goods and chattels. I’ve never heard of a chattel before.
Friday, June 27, 1902
I am exhausted! I
keep waiting for something exciting to put in here, but nothing is exciting these days. I keep wanting to cry. My hands are all rough from scrubbing with lye soap. Mother says to try using more elbow grease. I know what she means, but I don’t like to be told to use it when I am doing my best already. I have broken fingernails and had to get Mother to pick out lots of splinters. Ugh!!
If Father were here, he’d make us come to sit and be lectured. I long to sit down and fold my hands in my lap and get a break from housecleaning. I don’t really want to be scolded, but it would be worth it to be allowed to sit down. I would only need to whistle to bring on a scolding.
I wish I had not written that bit about Father. It is such a muddle inside me. I will be happy when this part of my life is behind me and the Western Adventure has begun. Surely we won’t keep thinking about Father in a place where we have never seen him.
Sunday, June 29, 1902
The letter from Uncle Martin came in Friday’s mail. It’s from Frank, in the District of Alberta. It is pages long.
Uncle Martin says that Olivia can be a big help in the hotel, and Mother will be able to give a hand with the cooking. They sometimes have over twenty people for a meal, and it takes a lot of work.
It is hard to imagine cooking dinner for so many. There must be towering stacks of dishes to do. Olivia and I both gasped and, for once, when our eyes met, our thoughts were identical.
He told us that Frank is less than two years old and yet has over six hundred inhabitants, as if that were a lot. I can’t remember right now how many people live here in Montreal, but it is a lot more than six hundred.
Mother says Frank is near the Crowsnest Pass, which is one of the main routes through the Rocky Mountains. That sounds exciting. I wonder if it is anything like my picture of it.
Uncle Martin said that Davy and I are welcome too. I can care for Davy and sometimes help with the other work. Then he said John will also be welcome. There is plenty for a stout lad to put his hand to. Those were his exact words.
John looked relieved but also put out. Maybe he didn’t like being called a stout lad. It does sound a bit strange.
