“Does that suit you, Ivy?” Clara asked.
Ivy nodded and followed Lily.
“I like the house,” Clara said, standing by Maggie’s car and gazing across the street at the duplex. “What can you tell me about the neighbours?”
Maggie headed north on Hilltop. A few houses beyond the intersection the appearance of poverty was noticeable in the jalopies under repair littering front yards. “Many of these folks have lost their jobs at the paper and steel mills. They can’t afford the gas to drive those cars.” She made a U-turn and crossed Pim to the eastern block of Hilltop to where manor-like residences overlooked the city, the river, and the border with the United States.
“These are the homes of the managers of the plants,” Maggie said. “They have chauffeurs to drive their cars.”
“Goodness!” Clara exclaimed. “Hilltop Crescent is a paradox of income disparity.”
“It’s a mirror of our city,” Maggie said. “The duplex is somewhere in between the social extremes. Just where you should be, Mrs. Durling.”
Clara mulled it over. She knew it was a good house. The fact that it was furnished was a definite asset. And she wanted a home for her and Ivy. “I’ll buy it.”
Maggie grinned. “I knew you would. I know my clients.”
CHAPTER 4
The Sault Ste. Marie Royal Canadian Legion planned a wreath-laying ceremony on November 11, Remembrance Day, to commemorate those from the Soo who perished in the First World War. The cenotaph, having been designed by an architect from Southern Ontario, was cause for local pride. Barnaby’s lost arm was a visible testament to the horrors of war, and he was asked to lay the wreath. Normally a calm man, Barnaby became agitated in his sleep a few days before fulfilling the Legion’s request. Lily recounted her husband’s mumblings to Clara, who had nursed hundreds of wounded soldiers during the war. Clara suggested a nightcap — two ounces of rye in eight ounces of sweetened warm milk. The nightly libation worked well until Lily discovered that there was no more rye in the liquor cabinet. It was a Sunday, so she called Clara.
“We’ve run out of rye, Clara. Can you lend me a bottle?”
“I’m out myself. I’ll never understand why liquor stores have such restricted hours. There’s a wine merchant on every corner in Britain. An Englishman never runs out!”
“If I come by in an hour, will you go with me to Singapore Sal’s?”
“What has an Asian woman got to do with rye?” Clara asked. “I didn’t know rye was popular in Asia.”
“Sal D’Agostina’s Italian. She bootlegs out of her house.”
Clara hung up, intrigued that she would be in the part of town where the bootleggers lived.
A brisk wind outside had blown away the last leaves from the trees on the property across the street. While she waited for Lily’s honk, she imagined a house on the lot that would block her view of the ferries crossing back and forth between the Canadian and American Soos. She had placed her writing desk at the window for that view and hoped she would like the family who would eventually become her neighbours. Her thoughts were broken by the anticipated blast of Lily’s horn. Clara considered this rude but threw on her coat and hustled to the car before Sergeant Stuart could descend the stairs to say “Good morning.”
“I don’t need the rye until evening,” Lily said as Clara got into the car. “Would you like a quick tour?”
Clara nodded and clutched the dashboard as Lily sped down the hill behind Sault Collegiate Institute. They crossed Wellington Street and headed to the river’s edge where they parked. As they picked their way to the shoreline along a muddy path, Clara was glad she had put on old shoes. Turbulent water jigged and swirled above the rocks, frothing and then rushing forward to dance on another rock.
Clara put her hand to her chest. “I can feel the energy in these rapids.”
Lily chuckled as Clara relaxed after the car ride. I know what she’s thinking, Clara thought. I have an unfortunate history with cars. Her niece was no doubt recalling the legendary story of how she had driven Alistair’s fancy car into the Oldman River while he was teaching her to drive.
A man was casting from the foot of an iron bridge, and when he saw the ladies, he sauntered over. “I’ve fished here since I was a boy,” the brown-skinned man told them.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Clara said.
“What can you tell us about these rapids?” Lily asked.
“Are you from the area?” the man queried.
“My husband’s the new city coroner,” Lily said.
The man grinned. “Hope I don’t meet him too soon.” He nodded at Clara. “And you?”
“I’m the new nurse at Shingwauk School.”
The man laughed. “I’m half-Indian. My Scottish father wouldn’t let me attend the residential school. He worked for Francis Clergue as a bookkeeper. My mother moved off the Garden River Reserve when she married my father, and we lived in that building over there.” He pointed to a strange structure that looked as though it had been constructed upside down with a wide log cabin set on a much narrower stone base.
“I’ve never heard of Clergue,” Lily said.
“Clergue was an American industrialist backed by financiers from Philadelphia who saw the energy potential in the rapids. They turned this sleepy hamlet into an industrial powerhouse. Until then, Indians had fished here thousands of years and traded with the white men when they arrived. Whitefish jumped out of these rapids by the thousands, making them easy to catch. The Sault Rapids was the site of the largest summer gathering of Indians to catch and dry whitefish until white men came to build their factories. You might say I’m a throwback from the past.”
“It looks like some of these buildings are abandoned,” Lily noted.
“The Philadelphia group pulled out after investing $30 million, leaving Clergue bankrupt. When he couldn’t pay his men, they trashed his office and the buildings around it.”
“And then?” Clara asked.
“Reserve troops arrived from Toronto, and the rioting stopped.”
“I guess, like many visionaries, Clergue never saw the obstacles,” Clara offered. Nor did I in Lethbridge, she thought.
The man finished talking and then wandered back to the bridge, waving as the ladies moved away.
“I think I’m going to enjoy living in the Soo,” Clara said.
They got in the car and headed west. “Italians and a few Finns for variety inhabit this part of the city,” Lily said. As the Rambler neared the intersection of Queen and Gore Streets, Lily slowed down. Several rough-looking, pale-skinned youths were idling on the road. “This is the geographic divide between foreigners and Anglo-Saxons.” She had stopped to let the boys get off the road when a big fellow put his face to the window.
“Get out of the car!” he demanded. His eyes were sharp and mean.
Lily hopped out with her hands on her hips. Then she pushed her fingers through her thick, curly blond hair as though she meant business, narrowing her eyes — green, like Clara’s. “When were you selected as border control?”
“Bitch!” he sneered as the others moved in.
Lily pushed the boy so hard in the chest that he tumbled backward while the others moved away, fearful Lily might run them over.
She was shaking when she got back in the car. “It was a bully who killed Ed.” Her voice was taut with emotion.
Lily rarely spoke about her first husband, Edward Parsons. His tragic accident had occurred before Clara had arrived in Lethbridge. However, she knew the story. Ed had died as a result of a mining accident while picketing during a strike. Lily had been standing on the rail line with Ed’s birthday lunch, hoping to surprise him. A militant union organizer, Bob Glimp, uncoupled a coal cart, and as it sped down the line toward Lily, Ed lurched forward to push her out of the way. His kidney was badly damaged, and after a long hospital stay, he died. Lily had stood up to Glimp’s bullying, and he hated her.
“Good for you, giving those boys a piece of you
r mind,” Clara said.
Lily drove past the teenagers, eyes straight ahead. “Sal lives on Cathcart Street,” she said, as though nothing had happened. Once they arrived at Sal’s place, they sat in front of it until Lily was breathing normally.
When Clara finally met Sal at the door, she saw that unlike most Italian women in the neighbourhood, the woman was tall and thin. Her deep-set brown eyes were wary until Lily identified herself. Chattering in the background stopped until Sal shouted, “It’s okay!”
“At the inquest into my husband’s death, Dr. Barnaby recommended that all doctors speak some Italian,” Sal said. “He attended Gino’s funeral.”
“Mrs. D’Agostina, my husband is full of surprises!” Lily said.
Sal smiled and asked Lily and Clara to come in while she fetched the requested bottles. The children seemed shy and followed their mother upstairs.
“I speak English all the time,” Sal said when she returned with the bottles. But Gino — he worked at the plant with Italians. His English wasn’t too good.”
Lily herself is full of surprises, Clara thought when she got back in the Rambler. As they passed the border-patrolled area, she reflected on the twists of her niece’s life. Lily had stood first in her class at Truro normal school in Nova Scotia. Yet she had been unable to find a teaching job when she moved to Lethbridge with Ed. Western schools preferred the American curriculum to the British methods that Lily had learned. After Ed’s death, her economic circumstances forced her to take on the management of a brothel to support her young son.
It didn’t surprise Clara that Lily was teaching English soon after moving to the Soo. She had taught proper diction and language while managing the brothel so that the girls might find better jobs than being prostitutes. That was how the same teaching instinct was brought to the Italian community in the west end of the Soo.
Mothers and grandmothers had problems communicating with their children once they started school. English was the language they were taught in. Anna McCrea, the principal of McFadden Public School, had sent home a note that every pupil must obtain a library card and bring a book to school. Within weeks, dozens of McFadden pupils had borrowed a book. Two months after Miss McCrea’s ultimatum, Lily started a Saturday afternoon reading hour. She had expected the mothers to drop off their children, but they stayed in the background. Instead, they gawked as their children mysteriously disappeared into the stacks to choose a book. Barely understanding what Lily was saying, they nodded that they wanted to learn English, as well. Lily offered them English classes after the reading hour. Occasionally, the tough economic circumstances showed on the women’s faces. Sometimes it was a bruise on the cheek or a mother and her children just stopped coming. Lily had to exercise diplomacy when a disgruntled husband marched in to take home his wife.
The English classes were held at the West End Library, a functional, two-storey building with thick vinyl flooring normally seen in battleships. Formerly, it had been the Steelton Post Office. Its high windows let in plenty of light, creating a warm atmosphere. Although Italian women rarely left home except on Sundays for Mass or to shop along James Street, they did bring their children to the library. Lily established another attraction to ensure the mothers, despite pressure from their husbands to stay home, would still come. She solicited discarded clothes from her well-off east end neighbours and received plenty of donations. These elaborate dresses and suits and the occasional long gown were unsuitable for the heavy-set Italian women. The cast-offs were deposited in a large bin at the entrance to the West End Library, and the Italian mothers cleverly modified them to fit their daughters.
Lemons to lemonade, Clara thought. She smiled as Lily drove past Gore Street, still indignant from the young ruffian’s challenge. The teens were no longer in sight, though.
CHAPTER 5
Clara witnessed many obstacles during her first three months as the nurse at Shingwauk. Optometrists, dentists, and even school desks were problematic. As Christmas approached, she discovered yet another hardship. Children from distant communities couldn’t spend the holidays with their families. The students who could return to their families for Christmas were dubbed the “Lucky Ones.” Before the exodus, Reverend Hives arranged a party so that all the children at the school could give and receive presents, as had been the case with the three Wise Men and Jesus in the Bible, learning about Christmas in the process.
“Jesus gives us everlasting life,” Reverend Hives said, reiterating in his Sunday sermon the importance of the birth of Jesus.
He spoke of the gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Since the children had nothing to give, the ladies’ guild of the Anglican Church collected second-hand clothing, wrapped it, and organized a gift exchange. An evergreen tree cut from the woods behind the school was erected in the dining room and the tables pushed aside. The younger children sat cross-legged in a circle, watching wide-eyed as girls from the home economics class placed trays of decorated cookies on the table. Cookies were completely out of the ordinary. No one fidgeted, fearful that even at a party the custodians would crack down. Four-year-old Violette Dumont, who was living with the Hiveses, wore a red dress that stood out from the drab garments of the boarders. The normally placid faces of the children were all smiles as they passed Violette around to play.
Ivy had come reluctantly to the Christmas celebration, saying that Shingwauk reminded her of the Galt Hospital. When the gift-giving began, however, she displayed her usual good manners and helped distribute the gifts. Toques, scarves, mittens, socks, hockey pucks, skipping ropes, and baseballs for the warmer season emerged from the brightly wrapped packages. The children immediately began to barter, and items passed back and forth. Reverend Hives lifted his hand to stop Beatrice Crossly, the custodian of the senior girls’ dormitory, from stepping forward to cease the trading.
Clara had seen the custodian’s disapproval in the autumn when the children were sharing their tools as they closed down the garden before winter. Rakes, hoes, pitchforks, and spades were traded, as the task at hand required. She thought Mrs. Crossly had been afraid of Native children holding lethal instruments in their hands. Having another perspective Clara had marvelled at the efficiency of the young gardeners switching tools to suit the task.
“This is their custom,” the reverend now said with an eye on Mrs. Crossly. “Indians have bartered and traded for hundreds of years. White men wouldn’t have survived in our harsh climate if they hadn’t learned to do this. Why, furs were an essential part of their winter dress!”
When the trading ended, the reverend announced a surprise. The clicks of Sergeant Stuart’s metal spurs could be heard as he marched into the dining room in his red serge uniform. It had been Clara’s suggestion to liven up the Christmas party by inviting the sergeant. In the absence of a Santa Claus, she hoped his colourful outfit would brighten up the dreary surroundings, but she wasn’t prepared for the children’s immediate reaction. Their faces filled with fear, some with loathing.
Clara didn’t know that RCMP officers had wreaked havoc in Native communities. Some of the children at the Christmas party had seen their parents arrested by the Mounties. Others had watched their siblings dragged off, screaming the whole while. Hiding under the cabin was the most common escape. Reverend Hives and Dr. McCaig were the only white people in the school the children trusted. Now they stared at the headmaster with piercing brown eyes as though he had betrayed them. On every child’s mind was: Why did you invite an RCMP officer to our Christmas party?
The children didn’t consider Clara, as the nurse, to be part of the school. When they visited her, she didn’t care what language they spoke as long as she understood their problems. To them, she was the lady who removed slivers, bandaged scraped knees, and called Dr. McCaig for anything serious.
There was a drop in tension when Clara spoke. “Sergeant Stuart is a riding instructor. How many of you have ever been on a horse?” Clara had been a devotee of Buffalo Bill Cody when he visited London du
ring her nurse’s training at St. George’s Hospital across from Hyde Park, where the American had put on his show. She had followed his performances for years. Clara had assumed all Natives rode horses, but not a single hand went up in answer to her question.
In an effort to make friends at her school when she was living in Lethbridge, Ivy had learned that being funny could break the ice. Surprised by the dilemma created by Sergeant Stuart, Ivy hoped hijinks might do the same in a residential school. She grabbed one of the traded woollen hats and placed it on her head. The cap had a dangling fringe that looked like a horse’s mane. She walked, trotted, and cantered around the room, nickering and neighing. The staff looked mortified. Now Ivy felt challenged. Mrs. Crossly resembled the senior nurse at the Galt who had regularly scolded her.
“Let’s all be horses!” she said, pulling a small boy up and putting him on her back piggyback-style. He held on tightly to Ivy’s shoulders as she galloped around the room.
A handful of children from the nearby Garden River Reserve, who had arrived at Shingwauk without force, were brave enough to canter behind Ivy.
“Whoa! Pull on the reins to slow your horse down,” Ivy said, gripping her imaginary pair.
Mrs. Hives began a knee-bobbing trot with Violette. “This is the way the ladies ride!” she cried.
Her husband chuckled at the antics. When Ivy let the little boy slip off her shoulders, the reverend stood up to indicate the party should end, speaking in a language that elicited smiles. Then he repeated in English, “I hope you enjoyed the Christmas party.” The children got up to leave the dining room.
Reverend Hives had cancelled classes and workshops the day of the party. Talking above the rustle of students getting into their winter clothes to go outside, he said, “My Christmas present is to let everyone speak his or her own language. No English today.” The children filed out silently.
Patchwork Society Page 3
