by Ami McKay
Waltz me around again, Willie, around,
around, around;
The music is dreamy, it’s peaches and creamy,
Oh! Don’t let my feet touch the ground.
I feel like a ship on the ocean of joy,
I just want to holler out loud, “Ship Ahoy!”
Oh! Waltz me around again, Willie, around,
around, around.
Before the end of the second verse, Ginny was giggling with excitement, the taut skin of her stomach quaking with elbows and knees. Miss B. nodded and smiled. “He wants to see the sun just as much as you want him to, only we have to show him where it shines.”
Once Ginny was upright and comfortable, she thanked both Miss B. and me for our visit. “I wanted you to be the one, Miss Babineau, to catch my baby, but Laird…he wouldn’t hear it. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it…he says he just wants the best for me.”
Miss B. stopped packing up her bag and put her hands on Ginny’s belly once more. “Ten days or less I’d say. You’ll have no troubles now. You’re almost there.”
Ginny rubbed the sides of her stomach, staring at it as if she could see the child inside. “My mother died having me. I guess Laird’s worried it runs in the family. He just thought about it too long, and the next thing I knew we were down in Canning, signing the papers. You understand, don’t you?”
Miss B. patted Ginny’s hand. “You’re gonna be fine. Dr. Thomas said to send Miss Dora down with you. She’ll be right there, holdin’ your hand. She knows what to do.”
“I’m glad you’re going with me, Dora.” She looked up at me. “Laird thought too hard about that too, said no at first. He had some crazy story about your witchin’ one of his cows when you were young, but I insisted and said I wouldn’t go down that mountain without another woman’s help, and if I couldn’t have Miss B. then I’d better have you.” She smiled, looking a little bit proud of herself. “At least I got him to agree on that much.”
~ February 25, 1917
Canning Maternity Home
Ginny Jessup’s first birth
I can tell Ginny’s nervous, scared. It’s her first baby, after all. Laird worries so.
You’re a good girl, Ginny. You’ll be a good mother.
Dr. Thomas says he can make it easier. He can take the pain away. Twilight Sleep, scopolamine and morphine. She won’t remember a thing.
She’s breathing heavy, here it comes. Yes, yes. Make it go away.
Count back from one hundred, relax, all will be well.
She’s propped up, heels settled in the stirrups, knees falling limp to either side. The body keeps working while she’s gone, quaking, twitching.
He’s silent as he works down there, between Ginny’s legs.
There’s another woman in the delivery room. She’s angry, howling every complaint she’s ever had against her husband. Bastard. Son of a bitch. Lazy. Stupid. Yellow no-account bucket-mouthed ass.
I wonder if there’s pain, even if she’s not aware of it. Will it come back in a dream tonight, tomorrow? He tells me the method he’s using gives him complete control. A clean slice to the tight red skin, this allows for the outlet forceps to enter without lacerations, it allows for a clean, accurate repair when all is said and done.
The other woman is groaning, weeping, asking for her mother.
Ginny’s child is extracted. His head misshaped, a little bruised, breathing like he’s exhausted and can’t catch any air. Twilight Sleep leaves them a little short of breath, nothing that a hot bath in the nursery won’t cure.
The other mother is quiet now. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the curtain pulled around her bed.
Ginny’s eyes open and her hand reaches out to me. The rest of her body is still, as if she’s afraid to question what’s just happened. There was no moment of celebration at the end. She’s feeling left behind, unsure.
You’re a good girl, Ginny. You’ll be a wonderful mother.
The doctor sees this as normal. A kind of bliss. He’s happy when he greets her and tells her everything went smoothly, splendid. A healthy baby boy. Can you recall what happened?
Not much. No, nothing, actually.
Good. Good.
She’s weak on her feet. She can’t keep food down. She thanks him for his accomplishment. She waits to hold her child.
The Just Cause
Pier 19
Halifax, Nova Scotia
February 26, 1917
Mr. and Mrs. Judah Rare
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Dear Family,
After arriving in Halifax, Albert and I were lucky enough to join up with Skipper Rupert Flynn, who was fast to say, “Never met a Rare man who wasn’t a right-good sailor.” Because of our experience with schooners, he has invited us to join the crew of The Just Cause. Right now she looks “like a proper goddamn mess.” (Sorry, Mother, those are the skipper’s words, not mine!) The galley’s range is rusted out and held together with bits of wire. She’s missing blocks, shackles and any good lengths of rope, but I’m sure that when we’re finished with her, she’ll be a sound and worthy, three-masted topsail schooner. Skipper says they’re even set to fit her with 12-pdr guns, as she’s to be numbered as one of the “mystery ships” that are being used to tease out the German U-boats for stealth attacks.
The crew is a challenging and crazy lot. As Flynn puts it, “We’re sailors who don’t mind living on a whim and a prayer.” Perfect for us, I’d say! Albert and I will be part of the “Panic Crew.” Mostly we’ll be posing as innocent fishermen and passengers standing on deck. Our cook, George “Hefty” Wages, who served three months on a Q ship in the North Sea, has been known to go so far as to don a dress and hat and cradle a sack of potatoes in his arms like a baby. When a U-boat comes close enough to fire, we’re to scramble, throw out the lifeboats and shout, “Abandon ship, abandon ship!” If the Fritzies move in for a closer look, to see if the ship’s worth looting, the second crew comes up from below, raises the White Ensign and gives them a good blasting!
Here’s to a fisherman’s life on The Just Cause. I suppose it beats wading through the trenches like the rest of the boys from the Bay have set off to do. With any luck, this time next month we’ll be on our way to Sydney, Cape Breton Island.
Will write again soon.
Love, Borden
P.S. I am sending this letter with Fred Steele. We have been advised to keep our poking around the coast to ourselves, so Fred’s been kind enough to say he’ll put my scribbling in his pocket and deliver it on his way back to the Bay after working the docks in Halifax.
Miss Dora Rare
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
March 3, 1917
Mr. Borden Rare
The Just Cause
Pier 19
Halifax, Nova Scotia
Dear Borden (and Albert too),
It sounds as if you are looking forward to life on the high seas.
Life in the Bay moves along as usual. Last I was at the house, Father was curing venison. I know he missed your help in getting the beast home, as Charlie is no match for the two of you.
Mother misses you every hour of every day. You’d think she’d feel she had a son or two to spare, but on the contrary, she thinks of both of you often, and Gord says she still calls your names through the house at suppertime. She has placed a Food Control poster in the kitchen at the Seaside Centre and stands in the foyer after church reminding the ladies to “Eat less meat, fight with food!” You would be proud of her, indeed.
I’m getting on fine at Miss B.’s, and my education in midwifing is going well. Just last week, I went with Ginny Jessup down to Dr. Thomas’s. She and Laird have a baby boy.
Safe journey and wind in your sails.
Your adoring sister,
Dora, spinster midwife in training
14
REVEREND PINEO ARRIVED this week, his first sermon titled, “Forgive and Forget.” I took this as a sign that I need not do anything more
when it comes to Aunt Fran’s indiscretions with the now absent Reverend Norton.
Archer Bigelow came in late for Sunday service. There’s room at the end of our pew now that Albert and Borden are away, so he sat next to me. I swear I heard several girls catch their breath as we stood for the hymn, Archer’s shoulder touching mine, his hands holding the hymnal steady between us. I felt as though the entire congregation was staring at me during the fellowship greeting. As I turned and reached over the back of the pew to take Grace Hutner’s hand, my polite gesture was met with sharp fingernails digging into my palm. All the while, she smiled sweetly, “Greetings in Christ, Dora.” I managed a painful reply. “Greetings in Christ, Grace.”
After church was over, Precious scampered through the meeting house, handing out invitations for her upcoming card party.
The Queen of Hearts is baking tarts, and I’m as giddy as an old March Hare! I should be so pleased if you would dine with me Friday, March 9, at half past seven Mad Hatter tea and card party to follow Yours sincerely, Miss Precious Jeffers
Hart came up to Archer and plucked the envelope from his hands. “A little old for tea parties, aren’t we, brother?”
Archer grabbed the invitation and shoved it in his breast pocket. “Speak for yourself, brother.”
Hart snorted and shook his head. “You should be up to your knees in mud at Ypres instead of playing hearts with little girls.”
Archer replied with loose laughter in his voice. “At least I can hold my cards in one hand and a girl in the other.”
I’ve never seen brothers more different than those two, or more at odds. My brothers argue, but not over anything that matters—who gets the last of the mashed potatoes, who has to feed the cows this week, who forgot to shut the barn door. Sooner than not, they lose sight of their bickering and get back to their usual jabber and jokes. If it ever came right down to it, I’ve no doubt they’d defend one another life and limb. Archer must not think about how easy it would be for his brother to beat him senseless or he wouldn’t come back with such nasty responses. He has charm, but Hart’s easily got twenty more pounds and a half foot of height on him, neither of which care much about a winning smile or quick wit. I tried my best to think of something clever to say to keep them from arguing, but Grace Hutner stole the chance, her eyes knowing and bright as she snugged the knot of Archer’s tie up to the top of his collar.
“Archer’s got no choice in the matter. He’s by far the best partner I’ve ever had…I couldn’t possibly play a single hand without him.”
Hart sulked away, and Archer’s attention turned towards Grace. She continued on, her voice lilting, swinging up and down with giggles and sighs, her body leaning into his, pulling at his sleeve, owning him.
I dreaded going to Precious’s party. I even found myself wishing that Miss B. might have a feelin’ come on, or that Ginny Jessup’s baby might catch a little cold, so I could decline the invitation. When the evening arrived, Charlie came with the sleigh and Miss B. pushed me out the door.
Precious already had pairings in mind, directing us after dinner to our places at the card tables set up in the parlour. I had hoped I could keep Charlie as my partner. We make a feisty brother–sister match when it comes to partnership hearts, whist or 120’s. Unfortunately, Precious placed him with Anna Rogers, who was more than happy to follow his lead.
Table one, Precious and Sam Gower, Anna and Charlie. Table two, Florence Jessup and Esther Pineo, Clara and Irene Newcomb. Table three, Grace Hutner with Archer Bigelow, and me with Oscar Foley. Everything about Oscar is round and slow, his eyes, his face, his body, his wit. Losing is a painful and tortuous affair with Oscar as a partner. He’s never quite sure who has won or lost until someone announces it to him.
After four miserable rounds, Archer suggested we switch partners. “For variety and friendship.” Oscar agreed, I agreed, and Grace, after forcing a cheerful grin, agreed. Archer and I made an interesting pair, my quiet, unassuming face never balking at his loud exclamations every time he picked up a new card. What an actor he is! There aren’t enough spades in three decks of cards to bring on all that moaning. Poor Grace tried her best to direct Oscar through the game, but without success. When it was time to switch tables, Archer took my arm and escorted me towards Charlie and Anna. Grace stomped upstairs to pout.
A good hour must have passed before I realized that our table was the only foursome still playing. The other girls had gathered near the fireplace, circled in serious conversation. Grace broke from the group and approached Archer, flourishing a large white ostrich plume that must have come from one of Aunt Fran’s hatboxes. “As President of the Scots Bay Chapter of the White Feather Brigade, I present this token to you, for your undying dedication to being a traitor, a menace and a coward. May all the starving orphans of Europe curse your name.”
I’d read newspaper accounts of men being heckled and “feathered” by young women in the streets of London, but never thought such rudeness would happen here in the Bay. Not much had been said about the men who had chosen to stay home, as most people feel that many of them have good reason. Not long after Albert and Borden left, Father mentioned Archer’s name, wondering why he hadn’t signed on. Mother, who always tries her best to see the good in others, said that maybe the Widow Bigelow had asked him not to go, that she couldn’t bear to see another man taken from her life, or that perhaps Archer didn’t want to make Hart feel poorly, or that their mother needed both of them to look after her big house. The longer she went on, the more Father was inclined to say that her reasons made no sense. She ended it by saying. “Talking ill of Archer Bigelow won’t bring our boys home any sooner.”
Archer took Grace’s actions for a joke, tucking the feather through the buttonhole of his shirt and puffing up his chest. “As the only member of the Scots Bay Order Against Young and Tragic Deaths, I accept this honour and will wear it proudly.”
Outraged, Grace pulled Precious next to her and pointed at the door. “I think I speak for all the young ladies in this room when I say that you are truly not a man, but a snake and a coward. You are not welcome here.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “You don’t speak for me.”
Precious was frantic. “Dora, how could you?”
I continued, “You have no right to question his decision not to go to war.”
Grace was fuming. “If I could, I’d march through Europe myself, killing Huns right and left, gutting them with a bayonet and crushing their skulls with the heel of my boot. But I can’t, and neither can any other woman who might wish for victory over evil…and neither can these boys who are too young to serve their king.” She glared at Archer. “But you can.”
I interrupted her again. “What about wishing for peace? Isn’t Archer entitled to that?”
She spat back at me. “You can wish for peace and still fight in the war.”
I glared at her. “Can you?”
Archer stood up. “Ladies, I’d love to stay and debate the vices and virtues of war, but it seems my time has come. Miss Rare, would you be so kind as to help me find my way home?”
Precious stood in the doorway, whimpering about ruined foursomes and leftover tarts. Grace and the other girls consoled her. They were on to a game of charades before we got out the door.
I’ve never been afraid to talk to boys. Growing up with so many brothers, I always felt my thoughts could stand on their own (much to Father’s concern), that because we had all grown up together in the Bay, we were on equal footing. I’ve no skill at playing foolish like Grace, no moneyed fairness like Precious, and therefore no reason to keep my mouth shut. But as Archer and I walked down the empty road, led by the near-full moon, I fell silent, aware of everything I might say, but couldn’t. Older than Albert and Borden by far, he’s never seemed the least bit boyish to me. He’s been clean-shaven and clever for as long as I can remember, and he’s the only person who could make me feel I’d nothing to say.
Sometimes I think that if I lived
in another town, if I had no brothers, or if I ran away to a city like Toronto or Boston or even New York, I’d have been bought and paid for by now. It’s no secret that men in big places have a serious affection for the unknown. But here, where life is small and thoughts are even smaller, they stare at my face and the darkness of my hair, my skin. They stare and stare but never touch.
He said he didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to curl up in my loft at Miss B.’s alone, so I led him to the only place I knew that was empty and out of the cold, through the tiny bell tower door, down the aisle of the sanctuary and up to the choir loft. We huddled together in the last pew, sharing sips of rum from a battered old flask, talking and laughing.
“I always thought you were a good little teetotalling girl, Dora.”
“And I always thought you were too good to talk to the likes of me.”
He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the end of his scarf. “You know why women are so keen on their almighty temperance societies and this war?”
I shook my dizzy head, thinking that anything he had to say would prove to be important.
“Because it gives ’em an excuse to scold their husbands in public!” He offered me the flask. “Think on it, Dora, it’s the only time women have been given the right to call themselves superior to men. And what’s more, they can get on their high horses and say that God’s backing them on it.” He stared at me, his face serious and sad. “Do you suppose all the poor and homeless children of the world were put that way because of drunk and cowardly men like me?”
I stared back into his eyes. “There’s nothing cowardly in being a pacifist. It’s perfectly fine to call yourself a conscientious objector.”
He took the large feather from his lapel and leaned towards me, stroking it under my chin. “Alright, then. Dora Rare, will you kiss this conscientious objector?”
