by Ami McKay
The more I learn about them, the more I realize I’m not much for doctors.
5
Dr. and Mrs. Gilbert Thomas
Invite the ladies of Scots Bay to attend a special afternoon of
Tea and conversation
at
The Canning Maternity Home of Kings County
Saturday, December 7, 1916
Transportation to and from Canning will be provided
from the Seaside Centre.
THREE TEAMS OF STURDY horses hitched to three beautiful new sleighs were waiting at the Seaside Centre. Courtesy of Dr. Thomas.
Mother said I would have to take her place in representing the Rare family, since she had far too much work to do at home. I tried to convince Miss B. she should come along for the ride, but she refused, saying, “I ain’t been down North Mountain since the day I arrived. It’s been so long now, I guess I’d up and turn to dust if I set as much as one toe outside the Bay.”
Aunt Fran told Mother not to worry. “I’m already going, in an official capacity as secretary of the White Rose Temperance Society, so it’s no trouble to watch over my dear young niece. I’ll see that she minds her p’s and q’s.” Precious had begged her mother to include her as well, but Aunt Fran put her off, explaining, “You know how you suffer in the cold. Who knows what state you’d be in after riding down the mountain and back?” She smoothed Precious’s hair and retied the bow at the end of her braid. “What do we always say?”
Precious chimed in with a reluctant sigh. “Think of yourself, think of your health.”
Aunt Fran smiled and popped a lemon drop in Precious’s mouth. “Well done, dear, well done.”
Poor Precious waved us off and began to make her way home, but not before she made me promise to tell her “every little thing that happens.”
Aunt Fran was dressed in her Sunday best. When Mrs. Trude Hutner made a fuss over Fran’s new rabbit fur muff, Aunt Fran insisted that Mrs. Hutner and Grace ride opposite so they could continue their conversation. She handed the muff to Mrs. Hutner for a proper inspection. “It arrived yesterday. Irwin said I should pick out an early Christmas gift from the Eaton’s catalogue. At first he suggested that I might like a new coat, but I told him ‘no,’ of course, what with the war on and all. This is all I need. I was going to wait until church tomorrow to use it for the first time, but this seemed like the perfect occasion.”
Mrs. Hutner nodded as she stroked the soft white fur. “Like a little bit of heaven, I’d say…but practical too.” She slipped her hands inside the muff and grinned. “I think it’s time I had a new one myself. Perhaps I’ll give Grace my old one and mail in my order to Eaton’s this week.”
Aunt Fran tried her best to fight the disapproving look from her face. The two women are friends, but only because they are both in the position of having much more than most women in the Bay. Evidently, it takes equally thin parts of kindness and sincerity to marry well. “There was a lovely one made from beaver, pictured right next to this one. You’d certainly look smart in such a dark colour, if I do say so myself.”
Mrs. Hutner pouted and handed the muff back to Aunt Fran. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Most of Aunt Fran’s time (and much of Uncle Irwin’s family fortune) goes towards her need for having. Last Christmas it was Irish linens, after that, French lace table runners, and then it was figurines made from Italian porcelain…mostly birds, insects and fruit. These days, her fancy’s gone towards collecting spoons, hundreds of them, engraved with the faces of royalty and the great wonders of the world, the likes of which Aunt Fran would never dream of leaving her comfortable home in the Bay to see. She faithfully polishes them, singing hymns all the while, grinning as her reflection turns in the bowl, right side up, upside down, right side up, upside down. They line her parlour wall, each one a useless droplet of silver, but delicate enough not to offend God or any of the good Christian ladies of the Bay.
Mother always smiles to herself whenever we visit Aunt Fran. “A woman’s got to have something to set her clocks by…Fran’s cuckoo sings somewhere between spouting off Bible verses and rubbing those spoons.” I’ve never heard her complain about Fran’s treasures or how little she has for herself. She spends day after day sweeping dust and dirt out the door, one mealtime running into the next, her heavy, tired feet shuffling in front of the hot cookstove. Her back aches from wringing clothes over the washtub and tugging milk from the Guernsey’s udders. She was the pretty one who married for love. Seven children later, I hope she holds tight to that thought, as she tucks our dreams safely under our pillows and kisses Father good night.
I watched the trees go by, birch branches sparkling in the sun, spruces flocked white with fresh, wet snow from the night before. The horses kept a brisk pace, the sleigh cutting a clean path as we made our way down the mountain, winter-brisk air rushing past our faces. Fran shouted above the jangling of the sleigh bells. “I also got three new spoons…Buckingham Palace, the Pyramids of Giza and the Taj Mahal. You should come to tea next week and see them, they are glorious, simply glorious!”
Mrs. Hutner paused and buttoned the collar of Grace’s coat to the very top. “Only if you’ll come and see my newest pretties…” Grace smacked her mother’s hand away and pulled the button loose again.
Aunt Fran clapped her hands together. “Oh, Trude, did you get it already?”
Mrs. Hutner reached for Grace’s hand and squeezed it, tight. “Yes, the box arrived three days ago.” She spoke at a fast, excited pitch. “The Gilded Lotus. Rose medallion pattern, covered with flowers and gilt, and the charming face of an empress looks back at you from the bottom of each cup. They’re so small and delightful, each one with its own little rounded cover, like a tiny Chinaman’s hat. Guywan they call it, a covered cup.” Grace wormed her hand away from her mother’s grasp and then slowly dug her heel into the toe of her mother’s boot. Mrs. Hutner’s eyes began to water. “They have no handles, you know.”
Aunt Fran handed her a handkerchief. “How very odd.”
Mrs. Hutner dabbed the corners of her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been feeling under the weather.”
Aunt Fran nodded in sympathy. “Something’s going around. The Widow Bigelow started off with a slight cough, but wound up in bed for a week. I guess it’s a good thing we’re going to see the doctor.”
The Canning Maternity Home sits at the top of Pleasant Street. The tall, straight house looks as if it sprang up, white and clean, from nowhere. A stranger to the area would never guess that the place was once the rundown, forgotten house of Captain Robert Dowell, an English ship’s captain who had a wife in London and an extra wife right here in Canning, Nova Scotia. His tombstone in the Habitant Cemetery reads:
Captain Robert Dowell
1836–1883
Who gave up his life
to his one true love,
the sea.
Most people might take those words to mean that he drowned, but the fact of the matter is, Captain Dowell met a more sinister fate. After Emily Dowell, wife number two, received a letter from Lucinda Dowell, wife number one, the two women made an agreement. They vowed that the Mrs. Dowell who saw darling “Robbie” next would take a butcher’s knife and run it deep into his unfaithful heart.
It was Emily who met him first. It was Emily who waited in the dark of the wharf, Emily Elizabeth Dowell, née Trublood, the fair-faced daughter of the Honourable Judge Kingston Trublood. It was Emily who stabbed Captain Dowell, shoved him in the water and made good on the chance to right a wrong. Sadly enough, Emily couldn’t live with the consequences. She couldn’t bear to think that her own father might have to put her head in a noose. When she was done, she turned the knife on herself. Her marker is set next to her husband’s. Underneath a carved hand that points to heaven, it reads:
Emily Elizabeth Trublood Dowell
1858–1883
Faithful consort
True of heart
The mystery of their two
bloody bodies floating in the Habitant River might never have been solved, except for a letter that the Canning postmaster received after their deaths.
Manchester
England
October 25, 1883
Attention: Postmaster
The Village of Canning
Kings County, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Postmaster,
It has been many months since I have heard from my dear friend, Mrs. Emily Dowell. Does she still reside there? Is she well? Please tell me, have she and her dear husband settled their differences? I wouldn’t trouble you, but it isn’t like her not to send word. We are relatives of a sort, through marriage, and I am most anxious to hear news of her.
Awaiting your kind response,
Mrs. Lucy Dowell
The postmaster, a Mr. Martin deGroot, sent a quick response to Lucy Dowell. Even after the gruesome details were explained, they continued to exchange letters, Lucy telling of the lonely damp weather of Manchester and Martin cursing the long Nova Scotia winter. It wasn’t long before the postmaster realized it was the perfect match, Lucy being a widow, and he being in need of a wife. In the spring he sent for her, and Lucy Dowell became Mrs. Lucy deGroot.
Mother and Aunt Fran’s side of the family is connected to the deGroots through their great-great-grandmother’s sister. She left the Bay to marry into the strong Dutch family and never returned. Mother always points out the deGroot orchards on the way to Canning. “There’s the finest apples in Kings County.” They are round and plump with a red blush, just like the rest of our deGroot cousins, not at all like the small, tart fruit that grows in the Bay. We see the apples and the cousins once a year, in the autumn. Father brings new barrels down the mountain, and in return we get our share of apples and cider.
It was because of that simple tradition between our two families that Charlie and I always felt we had the “rights” to crawl through the broken cellar door of Captain Dowell’s house. Despite the boarded windows and the faded “no trespassing” sign, we figured (through murder, marriage and loose blood ties) that the house was ours. We’d sneak off to the house whenever Father let us tag along on his Saturday trips to Canning. To clean out the ghosts, we’d run up and down the stairs, howling and screaming. After that, we’d sit in the attic, silent and still, to see if they’d return. Even the ghosts wouldn’t recognize the place now.
Mrs. Dr. Thomas is a sweet woman, and although I found her to be kind enough, she seemed almost giddy with hospitality. She bounced as she led us from room to room, her expectant belly pushing forward, her hair piled in girlish ringlets atop her head. She rested her hands on her round stomach. “It’s our first, and hopefully one of the many babies to be born at the Canning Maternity Home.” She winked at Aunt Fran. “We ladies of Kings County are lucky to be in such good hands.”
We followed her through the first floor, touring a small sitting room, Dr. Thomas’s examination room, a large kitchen and sleeping quarters for two nurses.
The second floor had been turned into one large room. The white walls were lined with neat, square cupboards filled with folded towels and blankets. Under the far window were three large washbasins. Straight down the middle of the room were two long rows of empty white bassinettes. This was the nursery.
Dr. Thomas greeted us as we approached the third floor. “Welcome to the delivery room, ladies.” The top post of the banister, once dark with carved sea serpents and sailing ships, had been painted over, whitewashed like everything else. The dreary attic was now a wide, ample space. Ten spare beds with tight white sheets lined the walls. In the centre of it all was a large table, set with candles, finger sandwiches and fine china. Dr. Thomas motioned for us to be seated. “Please, won’t you join me for tea?”
He took each of the ladies’ hands as they entered the room, complimenting their dresses and hats, commenting on mutual acquaintances, distant relatives and the weather. He paused when he came to me, repeating my name after I said it. “Miss Dora Rare. A lovely name.”
We sipped our tea as Dr. Thomas explained “the advantages of modern childbirth.” He pulled on a sheet that was hanging from the ceiling and let it fall down as a partition between two beds. “At the Canning Maternity Home we have both privacy and efficiency. Up to ten women can labour at once and still have the best in obstetrical care.” He pushed the sheet back and tied it to the wall. “And more beds can be added as needed.” He stood at the end of a bed and turned a crank. The head of the bed rose and lowered and then rose again. “The new mother can labour and rest in the same bed.” He bent down and yanked a metal footing from either side of the end of the bed, smacking them into place with a hard jolt. “Stirrups. For support during birthing.”
The ladies all smiled and nodded. While they continued to eat their tiny sandwiches, Dr. Thomas wheeled over a metal cart. It was draped with a sheet and looked something like a caddy for tea and sweets. Aunt Fran gasped when he revealed the contents of the tray. The doctor chuckled. “It may look ominous, but I assure you, it’s all part of progress.” The tray was cluttered with shining silver knives, scissors and other medical instruments. Stored in the compartment beneath were jars of every shape and size. He took two medicine bottles and nestled them around the flower arrangement in the centre of the table. “Pituitrin and chloroform, a mother’s two best friends.” He then held up a pair of large wide tongs. “Forceps, the obstetrical physician’s best friend.” He passed them around the table. “I brought out all these things—the surgical knives, the scissors, the needles, the bottles of ergot and ether—not to frighten you, but to show you the path of modern medicine. These things hasten childbirth and put the labour process in the doctor’s hands. He has complete control. The faster the birth, the less chance for infection, and the less time the mother has to suffer. I’m sure you’d all agree, the less a woman has to suffer, the better.”
The women whispered and nodded, Trude Hutner adding, “Two days of labour it was with my Grace.” She patted Grace’s hand. “Can you imagine? Two whole days.”
Dr. Thomas sat down at the head of the table. “Late last week I was called to a birth in the village of Baxter’s Harbour. The local midwife attended the young mother’s birth, but as the labour progressed, it was clear that the mother was in much distress. The father, having been sent away from his home by the midwife, had sense enough to come to Canning to enlist my help. When I arrived, the mother was in a state of utter exhaustion and was too weak to deliver the child. It was too late for her to get any relief from the medicine I administered, too late for the use of forceps.” He shook his head. “That poor mother and her child are not alive today.” He took the forceps and placed them back on the cart. “Every time I recall that tragedy, I realize that there are more occasions than any of us care to think when a physician’s hand is the only saving grace.”
While the ladies were all shaking their heads in silence, Dr. Thomas continued, looking in my direction. “I don’t think that young mother was much older than your dear Miss Rare.” The ladies all turned and looked at me. “She’s the perfect example of one of Scots Bay’s fine young ladies who will be needing my assistance in the future.” He smiled and then winked at me, as if he knew me, as if we shared a secret (or as if he might have known I was hiding at Miss B.’s the day he called on her). My face, my ears, the back of my neck went hot. “It’s never too soon to start thinking about the day she’ll be a bride, a wife, a mother.”
As the ladies all agreed with Dr. Thomas, Grace choked on a petit four. Mrs. Hutner poured more tea in her daughter’s cup and encouraged her to drink (or at least hold her cup to her face to stifle her laughter).
Dr. Thomas placed a small booklet next to each place setting around the table. “A Mother’s Share from the Farmer’s Assurance Company would make a wonderful gift for a new bride.”
Mrs. Thomas added, “For any woman, really.”
The doctor stood behind his wife and placed his hand on her shoulder. �
�It gives a woman the peace of mind of knowing that she has a safe, clean place to have her babies.”
Although impeccable with his manners and polite at every turn, it was clear to me that Dr. Thomas was less concerned with a woman’s circumstances and more concerned with selling his services. You ain’t tellin’. You sellin’. Thinking of Miss B., I raised my hand to speak, my voice wavering as I questioned Dr. Thomas. “What about the cost? I don’t know many families in Scots Bay who can afford what you’re asking.”
Aunt Fran hissed at me. “Dora, don’t be rude.”
Mrs. Thomas smiled. “What a family spends on coffee and tea each month could easily buy a share.”
Not feeling as if I’d had a proper answer, or that Mrs. Thomas had the slightest notion of what the word cost means to most families in the Bay, I ignored Aunt Fran’s scolding and held up the back of the pamphlet. “But it says right here, ‘A Mother’s Share costs twenty-five dollars for one year.’ That’s an awful lot of coffee beans.”
Aunt Fran snatched the pamphlet from my hand and whispered, “I won’t hear another word from you.”
Dr. Thomas interrupted. “No, she’s right, not every woman may be able to afford her own share, but that’s why I’ve brought you ladies here today. This is a wonderful chance for women’s organizations like the White Rose Temperance Society to help the ladies of their community. What price, I ask you, is greater than life?”
Although she was all politeness and smiles, when the tea was over, Aunt Fran was the first to head to the door, pulling me along and muttering under her breath as she went. “For heaven’s sake, my own niece. If I’ve told Lottie once, I’ve told her a thousand times, you’ve got to keep an eye on that girl. Keep her away from books and those boys.”
