Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  “Allie!” How startling, here in this shifting mass of humanity, to hear her name called. It was not the vulgar tone of Theodora Figg, that much Allison knew. Turning, she came face-to-face with Georgina Barlow, at her elbow a large, beaming young man.

  “Georgie! I had given up ever seeing you again!” And Allie found herself wrapped in the arms of her short-time friend, each of them regretting that life would now separate them, and by thousands of miles.

  “I just had to see you, Allie, to say good-bye before we take off.”

  Even in the midst of the most confusion she would see for years, perhaps for the rest of her secluded life, Georgina had thought of her shipboard acquaintance. With David in her arms, she had found room for Allison.

  “This is David . . . Davie,” Georgina was saying, her eyes like stars. “Davie, this is the friend I was telling you about—Allison Middleton.”

  The two—Allison and David—met warmly, only to part immediately.

  For David was eager to be on his way; the marriage ceremony awaited and a long, long trek. “Come, love,” he said eventually, his eyes shining, and Georgina turned without reluctance to follow. The girls clung together in one final embrace.

  “Allison,” Georgina said at the last moment, calling over her shoulder before she disappeared in the crowd, “write to me!”

  “But where?” Allison had the presence of mind to call after her. “Where will you be?”

  “Davie says,” Georgina’s voice grew thin, almost lost in the hubbub, and Allison strained to hear, “he says . . . Saskatchewan . . . Prince Albert. We’ll be in Bliss.”

  Allison promised silently, knowing Georgina was beyond the sound of her voice, “I’ll write . . . oh, I will!”

  There, Allison told herself mournfully, all sight of Georgina gone, goes a true friend. Or she would be, given half a chance. Georgina had shown sincere interest in her, had cared. Georgina had prayed.

  Would anyone pray for her now?

  With a sigh Allison swallowed the lump in her throat and turned her thoughts to present matters, such as locating Theodora. Not finding her immediately, she turned her attention to locating the baggage area. There, she asked that her steamer trunk be moved out and set aside for her, sat down on it, and waited.

  She was enthralled with the amazing diversity of the people around her, not only in their manner of speech but dress. “Anything goes” seemed to be the accepted mode. Being an onlooker, Allison was touched by the winds of change that blew across this great, raw land, recognizing the necessity for it, the naturalness of it. Out with the old, in with the new, would be an exhilarating step for Allison. Now, if this Maybelle Dickey, when she located her, would be forward looking—

  Maybelle Dickey was still miles away. Where then was Theodora, who had the address of this Dickey person, who had made train arrangements, who had the money? There had been plenty of time for Theodora to have shown up, as prearranged.

  Three children, thin, possibly underfed, dressed in strange woolen garments, sat solemn-eyed on some bags nearby. A babushka-covered woman sought privacy to nurse a fussing baby by turning her back and opening a garment much in need of laundering. A boy strolled past pushing a small cart stacked with apples, reminding Allison that she had eaten very little breakfast and nothing since and was hungry, famished, in fact.

  “Young man!” she called impulsively, and the boy turned toward her.

  “Over here, young man,” Allison said, beckoning. Would Canadian apples taste better than English apples? She would soon know. Grinning toothily, the child approached, singing out, “Epples! Sveet epples, five cents!”

  Allison groped in the depths of her handbag for a coin, grateful she had exchanged all English funds for Canadian while aboard ship. What fun they had had, she and Binky, Freddy, Gilly, and the others, acquainting themselves with nickels, dimes, quarters, and so on. The “boys” had played games of chance, and though Allison had not joined in, she had become familiar with the new, strange money as it passed from hand to hand or lay in piles on the table.

  “A nickel, right?” she said now, producing the coin triumphantly. The young peddler grinned, took the money, picked up an apple from a dwindling supply, swiped it on the arm of his coat, and handed it to Allison with a flourish.

  “Velcome to Canada,” the urchin said with a rather courtly bow, which delighted Allison and made her laugh. Their laughter mingled as the apple salesman went his way crying his wares.

  Theodora—where was she? Allison stood by her trunk, munching on the apple, but her attention was given to searching the dock, now comparatively free of people, for a glimpse of her companion.

  Just when impatience changed to fretfulness and then to alarm she didn’t know; it crept upon her like a fog and was recognized with reluctance.

  It couldn’t be! It simply couldn’t be! It couldn’t be that Theodora would desert her, leave her alone, penniless, friendless.

  But it could be. It certainly could be. Somehow it didn’t seem at all out of character where the careless Theodora was concerned. Part of Allison accepted Theodora’s perfidy wholeheartedly, unsurprised. If there was any surprise, it was to wonder why she hadn’t suspected something of this sort long ago.

  When the truth settled in, the suspicion accepted as fact, the fear began, sweeping over Allison in waves. Never in her life had she been alone in public; women, young women particularly, were escorted everywhere they went. Consequently, she had never done any thinking for herself along lines of being independent.

  When she looked around, saw the departing people, noting the absorption of everyone with their own affairs, panic swelled in Allison’s heart. Sitting down again on the steamer trunk, she tried to still the tumult in her bosom, tried to think rationally.

  She would need to get herself off this dock. But how? Where would she go? Frantically, desperately, she jumped to her feet and called to a lone man hurrying past. “Sir . . . Sir . . .”

  The face that turned toward her was cruel, it was crafty, it was sly. Or so she, not a practiced discerner of character, assumed.

  The man’s dark eyebrows raised questioningly.

  Hot blood flooded Allison’s face—would he think her a loose woman making an overture?

  “It’s nothing,” she managed. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” and the man, with a shrug, moved away.

  Limply she collapsed on the steamer trunk.

  “Oh, God! Help me!” If ever a cry of desperation ascended to the throne, this was it.

  Always someone had been there to care for her, to supply her every need; no wonder she hadn’t prayed. Now, with no earthly resource available, she turned to God as surely as a homing pigeon seeks its cote.

  And didn’t she have good reason to do so? A passage of Scripture—an invitation—learned in childhood, suddenly had meaning: “Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee” (Ps. 50:15).

  So once again Allison, alone and helpless, called. “Oh, God! Help me!”

  She opened her eyes to see the young apple peddler trundling past, his wares depleted. Without thought, without planning, her voice raised in a spontaneous call.

  “Oh, apple boy! Young man!”

  The youngster, no more than twelve years of age, paused and looked her way. Recognizing her, a quick grin lit his face. In response to her beckon, he approached.

  “Epples all gone,” he said proudly.

  “I see; that’s wonderful, I’m sure. I’m wondering if you can assist me. May I employ you to take my steamer trunk to the depot?”

  “Employ . . . steamer trunk . . . depot?” the lad repeated, blinking.

  “Yes. You see, my . . . my transportation has deserted me.” Noting the eyebrows of the lad had knotted in puzzlement, Allison forsook formal conversation.

  “Listen,” she said simply. “I need to get to the train station. Can you take me? I’ll pay, of course.”

  Suddenly she realized she wasn’t a bit sure she could pay him or had the train
fare to get to Toronto. Muttering for him to wait a minute, she dug into her bag, locating a few coins in the bottom of it. Then, with a catch in her throat and a sob of pure relief, her hand encountered Sarah’s small purse, handed to her at the time of farewell. Sarah’s love gift, the money Grandmama had given her over the years and which she had never spent. It was a lifeline, pure and simple.

  Allison had only a moment to wonder: Had her heavenly Father—knowing she would call upon Him in her extremity in faraway Canada—prepared the answer before she called? It was an awesome thought and one she would pursue more thoroughly at her leisure. The small possibility of it was enough to square her shoulders, lift her head, and put a note of confidence in her voice as she spoke again.

  “Now . . . young man—”

  “Mik,” he said simply.

  “Now, Mik, if you’ll give a hand here, we’ll get this onto the cart.”

  Regardless of a few interested bystanders, Allison helped heave the trunk up and onto the cart, where it seemed in imminent danger of tumbling off but did not, due to the fact that, as they creaked away, she walked alongside, her hand holding it steady while the boy Mik did the pushing. She felt quite like a pioneer trekking across the vast expanse of the prairie.

  Mik, sturdier than he appeared, seemed to know the city well and, without hesitation and only resting three times—mostly, Allison felt, for her benefit—went directly to the train station. Here, at Allison’s request, an employee helped lift down the trunk, and she turned toward Mik to smile, thank him warmly, and hand him a bill that caused his eyes to brighten with delight and perhaps amazement.

  Realizing she’d have to watch her money more carefully in the future, Allison gladly paid the generous sum, said good-bye, and turned to the ticket office, ready for whatever came next. She’d been in Canada less than a day and had already been treated miserably and treated kindly. And was to be treated well again.

  As she painstakingly counted out the money for a ticket to Toronto, a familiar voice spoke in her ear.

  “I say, it’s Miss Middleton, isn’t it?”

  Feeling more relief than she would have dreamed possible, Allison turned to face Binky Wallingford, her shipboard acquaintance.

  Oh, Binky!” Allison cried, half weeping, half laughing, so great was her relief. Even Binky Wallingford, useless creature that he was, seemed a haven in a terrible storm.

  “There now,” he comforted, recognizing some sort of emergency and rising gallantly to it. “Is something wrong, old girl?”

  “Oh, Binky,” Allison managed again, and she could not control her trembling. Until this moment she hadn’t known how frightened she was. “It’s more dreadful than you can imagine!”

  “Come, come,” Binky said kindly, and he led her to a nearby bench. “Tell Bink about it.”

  Allison searched out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. Finally, with a measure of control, she asked, “Where are the others? Or are you alone?”

  Binky glanced around.

  “They’re around here someplace. Off getting a cup of Canadian coffee, I expect. Trying to get used to it. Have you noticed how dreadful the tea is here in this backwoods of civilization?”

  Slowly, under the casual conversation, Allison calmed down. Binky, though patting her hand, watched with expectant face and questioning eyes.

  “It’s Theodora,” Allison said finally, tragically. “She’s gone . . . disappeared. She’s forsaken me, Binky!”

  “You mean—she’s left you in the lurch? Are you sure? It can’t possibly be. Can it?”

  “It can’t be, but it is! I waited and waited for her, until nearly everyone else had gone, and it was clear to be seen she wasn’t there and wasn’t going to show up. She’s gone, vanished, and that Johann Kryzewski with her, I assume. Or her with him. They slipped away in the crowd; her baggage was gone, too. Binky—she purposely deserted me!”

  “But that’s wizard!” Binky said brightly, approvingly.

  “Wizard? Not really,” Allison objected, uncertain of what he meant but recognizing his stamp of approval on the entire matter. “I can’t see what could possibly be . . . wizard—”

  “Well, old girl,” Binky said, “it sounds like a good thing to me; not bad by any means. I believe I’d thank my lucky stars, if I were you. You’ll be much happier without Theodora the Dragon draggin’ around your neck.”

  “But, Binky,” Allison said, and her desperation threatened to surface again, “she’s got all my money!”

  “Your money?” Binky was taken aback this time. “She’s got your money?” This was a tragedy of major proportions. How could one manage without money? How could one survive? And how could one possibly be jolly, when even with plenty of change in one’s pocket, jollity had to be worked at, at times?

  “My . . . my remittance money,” Allison muttered, never having made the confession, the explanation, before.

  Her companion’s thought processes showed quite clearly as his usually genial face slowly changed, from the approval he was feeling, to thoughtfulness, to understanding, and back to approval.

  Binky Wallingford, family scamp that he was and sent away because of it, understood Allison’s situation perfectly after just a few moments of groping through her words. His surprise that this adorable acquaintance could possibly be a troublemaker slowed him down a bit in grasping the true state of affairs. But the light dawned, and Binky felt he was face-to-face with a kindred spirit.

  Because of Binky’s own escapades and his inability to pass even one of the exams for which he sat, his father had shipped him off, a scapegrace. He had quickly fallen in with other young men in the same category, remittance men one and all; they understood each other, they had a certain camaraderie. Yes, he caught on to Allison’s brief explanation quickly, without the need for her to say more. Perhaps a lot of things fell in place for him at that time—why a young woman, gently raised, of obvious good breeding, would be sent off to Canada, and with someone who seemed, to Binky’s critical eye, entirely inappropriate. Yes, Binky grasped Allison’s halting explanation.

  Miss Middleton—Allison—was one of them!

  “By Jove,” he said admiringly, “who’d have thought it. A remittance, er, person.”

  “It . . . it wasn’t all that bad, what I did,” Allison defended, but she was not a bit sure she convinced the captivated Binky.

  “That’s what we all think,” he assured her and was no comfort at all. “Well, welcome to the club! Now then,” he said, getting serious, or as serious as Binky Wallingford ever allowed himself to get, “this Figg individual has all the money, you say? How did that happen?”

  “I’m not quite eighteen,” Allison admitted, “though I will be in a couple of weeks, and my father considers me ineffective, silly, ignorant, and helpless, I suppose. Theodora Figg carried everything—the funds to get by on until contact with home could be resumed, the letters of credit, the address of the person I’m going to live with in Toronto—”

  “Person?” Binky asked, puzzled.

  “A lady—”

  Not certain whether or not the “person” was a lady or another such as Theodora Figg, Allison corrected her description: “A woman. A woman I’ve never met.”

  Binky whistled. “You don’t know where you’re going, you don’t know the person you’ll be living with, and you have no money. Adzooks!”

  “Actually,” she continued with as much dignity as she could muster, “I have some money. I can certainly get myself to Toronto.

  “But when I get there—how will I locate this person, this Maybelle Dickey? Theodora has all the correspondence, all the instructions. And did Maybelle Dickey get my father’s letter? You see, he didn’t wait long enough to get an answer back.”

  “An unknown destination in an unfamiliar city.” Binky was shaking his head at the thought, and the problems conjured up. “And a stranger to meet you.”

  “She’s a relative of a relative, I suppose you’d say,” Allison explained
and felt no better for it.

  “What a confounded position to be in!” Binky said sympathetically. Then, brightening, he added, “I say! Why don’t you come with us? With me and the other chaps to British Columbia? We’ll just zip—well, probably not zip—trundle by train on through the prairies and the mountains and the backwoods until we reach civilization and our own kind again.”

  “It seems quite civilized here,” Allison interjected. “At least they’ve come a long, long way. And I quite like the freshness of the place, the newness.”

  What she called fresh and new, others would think of as dust and dirt, raw and makeshift. The finished and the unfinished produced a mix that the land had yet to adjust to, as well as the people involved, for they, too, often seemed raw and crude. Having come a little way, there was much to do, a distance to go.

  “Here in eastern Canada,” Binky explained, “or so the guidebooks say, it’s all been tamed into farmlands. Very pastoral, really. Terribly bucolic, if you like that sort of thing. And it’s tamed so much that there’s small opportunity for adventure, or for business opportunities for that matter, which some chaps need if they mean to survive. So you see, most remittance men head directly to the Canadian West.”

  There it was again—the lure of the West. Even social outcasts found it irresistible, loading steamer trunks and boxes of supplies onto the Canadian Pacific Railway as soon as they were unloaded from the ship and rolling westward.

  “On the other side of the continent, in British Columbia,” Binky continued, “remittance men are able to live in communities already established by British people. It’ll be like home—tea in the afternoon; games of squash; congenial interaction with people who speak and understand our language.” All of them had commented on the hodgepodge of languages swirling like chaff through the immigrants.

  So that’s what Binky had meant by “our own kind,” Allison thought. He’d come all this way simply to settle into another British environment.