“It’s the size of an ocean!” Ivy exclaimed. Inside the cottage, she remarked on the peculiar odour.
“All cottages smell the same,” Clara said. “It’s a mixture of old wood, fireplace ashes, and musty mattresses.”
“I only remember holidaying at the main lodge at Waterton Park in Alberta,” Ivy said, obviously confused by Clara’s seeming familiarity with cottaging.
“A few years ago when you were away visiting a friend, I rented a summer cabin at Waterton Park. I remember the fireplace was made of puddingstone, which is local to the Soo but not Alberta.” Clara’s face grew wistful as she ran her hand over the multi-hued pink puddingstones of the fireplace. “Memories … we never forget the precious ones.”
Clara wondered if Ivy was aware that she hadn’t been alone in the Waterton cabin. Perhaps her daughter knew she had been there with her friend, Alistair. Ivy, as far as Clara understood, only knew Alistair as an amateur astrologist who read the lines on her small hand and predicted her future.
Leaving Clara to reflect on her past privately, Ivy went into the smaller bedroom to unpack. When her daughter returned to the living room, she gave Clara a big hug.
* * *
Ivy and Clara had arrived at Batchawana on a Monday, and as the days passed, Ivy began to miss her school chums and asked if she could invite a friend to the cottage for a few days. They were discussing what friend when a striking dark-haired girl emerged from the trees and opened the door of the screened-in porch where mother and daughter were shelling peas.
“I’m Jean Donnelly,” she said. “My mother would like you to come for a glass of sherry at five today. My brothers arrive tomorrow with my dad, and the house will be chaos. Just the girls tonight.”
“That’s a welcome invitation,” Clara said. “It’s been rather quiet this week.”
“It’s nice to meet someone my age,” Ivy said. “Should I bring my bathing suit?”
“If you like swimming in the Arctic.”
Clara and the girls laughed.
“I don’t swim,” Clara added.
“My mother doesn’t, either. See you at five,” Jean said, disappearing into the woods.
The Donnelly cottage was much bigger than the one Clara had rented. Ed Donnelly had inherited a coal and building supply company from his father, who had been a businessman and chief of police in the area. At his death, it was hard to find a casket big enough to fit his enormous frame. An astute yet jovial man, he had been respected and loved by his constables. He had bought many of the properties for sale along the waterfront when Francis Clergue, the American industrialist, went bankrupt.
Ellen Donnelly had a ceremonial manner about her that seemed strange for a woman who grew up on a farm with a dozen siblings. “I had to adopt city ways when I married Ed,” she explained as she served the sherry on a silver tray with linen napkins. “My sisters think I’m putting on airs, but Ed likes the formality.”
Jean and Ivy came running up from the lake, shivering under their towels. Dressed in warmer clothes, they sat by the fire with glasses of sherry to discuss nursing school in Toronto. Jean was in her second year and full of gruesome stories.
Ellen didn’t know there was a residential school in the Soo. Despite this ignorance, she was intently interested in the health problems that Clara described, particularly those due to the poor nutrition in the food.
“Do they have a farm?” Ellen asked.
“They do, but much of what they grow is sold. The children were drinking milk directly from the cow. The city banned unpasteurized milk, but the school’s outside the city limits, so they could get away with it until Ogre Durling arrived.”
Ivy and Jean escaped to the outdoor porch leaving the mothers to their own gossip.
“Private conversation,” Clara joked as they watched their daughters leave.
“Jean’s no doubt telling your daughter about her brothers, none of which will be positive.”
Both ladies chuckled.
Later, when Clara and Ivy returned to the rented cottage, Clara had to reignite the wood stove. “It’s a simple supper tonight,” she said. “Baked ham, bread, and peas. What did Jean have to say?”
Ivy wasn’t coy. “Her older brother’s called Red. He has thick, wavy brown hair and bronze skin from being outdoors. Jean’s story is that Red blushed in elementary school when the teacher remarked that his buttons were open. His classmates teased him, and the name stuck. He’s in pre-med at the University of Toronto.”
“What about the other brothers?”
“They do have red hair. I only remember Jack Donnelly, who’s in grade ten. He’s a bit of a rascal.”
“Too young for you.”
“Jean said I wouldn’t like any of them.”
Clara soon discovered that everyone with a cottage on the bay was related to Ellen. Ed had been the first to build, and some of her relatives followed. They were an outdoors family and spent the weekends fishing, cooking, and then eating their catch of the day. Ivy enjoyed baking with Mrs. Donnelly who, unlike Clara, was a marvellous cook.
The Donnelly boys worked for their father during the summer doing whatever job he felt would build character. Ed Donnelly had smoked since he was ten and suffered from emphysema. The construction and coal dust he had breathed through most of his life had further compromised his lungs. He was breathless after a short walk to the beach.
One sunny afternoon, Red returned from fishing and Clara noticed the scar on his side when he went off to get dressed.
“I suppose you’re wondering about that ugly scar,” Ellen said. “It might not be so noticeable if it wasn’t keloid.”
“I assumed your son had a kidney operation,” Clara said.
“Yes. One of his kidneys was removed at Montreal General Hospital when he was sixteen. The stones were excruciating when they passed.” Ellen tossed her head back and laughed. “Maud Irving, a crusty old math teacher, came to the house to tutor him. Maud always liked Red,” she added thoughtfully. “Mothers, like teachers, shouldn’t have favourites. Miss Irving and I are responsible for Red being a bit spoiled.” Turning the subject away from Red, Ellen asked Clara, “What brought you to the Soo?”
“I moved for health reasons. High blood pressure indicated I should get out of the mountains.”
“Ed tells me Batchawana is the fourth-highest mountain in Ontario,” Ellen said. “But that’s nothing like the Rocky Mountains.”
Clara realized Ellen was thinking of Calgary, but there was nothing in her tone that suggested she didn’t believe Clara. If Ellen had pursued the issue further, Clara would have mentioned losing her job, but Ellen didn’t seem curious. If her new friend had been the gossipy sort, she would know that Clara had been the superintendent of a hospital in Lethbridge and was now a nurse at a residential school. Certainly, poor health wouldn’t direct Clara to such awful circumstances.
Returning to her cottage through the woods, Clara dispelled her fear by remembering the clash she’d had with the newly wealthy Lethbridge businessmen. They wanted to build a new hospital, and I argued to expand the existing one. I put up a fight that angered the recent millionaires, and when the crash came and they were no longer so powerful, I was a target of their disappointment. I could have been more diplomatic, she mused.
The two ladies sought each other’s company daily during the remaining weeks Clara rented the nearby cottage. Ellen was as domestic as Clara was professional. She brought over homemade berry pies that Clara and Ivy could never finish. When Ellen learned that Clara had treated hundreds of soldiers with breathing problems, she had questions as to what could be done for Ed.
Clara told Ellen what she could about breathing problems and then said, “After all this chatting, I need some exercise.”
“Berry picking will do the trick,” Ellen suggested, and drew a map of the paths around the cottage. “Keep your head up because bears are looking for berries, too.”
CHAPTER 15
August was the height of t
he blueberry season. Ellen’s inland map led Clara to an explosive patch of blue-grey and green. She listened for any motion that might mean bears were nearby and then clanged the metal bucket she was carrying with a rock, dropping berries into the pail and occasionally into her mouth. A rustle made her jump, and she expected to see a bear. Her heart raced. Two brown-skinned women with braided hair were on their knees filling their own pails. They nodded and stood up to move elsewhere.
Clara raised her hand so they wouldn’t walk away. “Do you speak English?”
They shrugged as though Clara had asked a stupid question.
“Can you show me how to get to the Martin family? William Martin?” She lowered her hand so they would understand she was asking about a boy.
Their glances were wary, and Clara decided not to mention that she knew the Martin children from Shingwauk. These women might well be former students, she thought. They’ll know what white people do to braids.
The ladies walked Clara a hundred yards through the trees until they reached the edge of a clearing where children were running, laughing, and trying not to be “it.” Then they turned back toward the berry patch without uttering a word.
The game of tag is as old as Methuselah, Clara thought. Rubbish, broken parts of machines, and unidentifiable discarded items provided an obstacle course to avoid getting tagged. The children stopped playing when Clara approached.
“William Martin?” Clara queried, again lowering her hand.
Lila Martin scuffled forward with her chin on her chest. “I’m Lila,” she whispered, raising her hand as if she were in a classroom.
Clara couldn’t hear what the little girl had said but recognized her as the one whose hair she’d checked for lice. “I’ve come to say hello.”
The children circled Clara, hoping for a treat. She smiled and extended her berry pail. The little hands dug in greedily, and Clara put the risk of getting pinworms from dirty hands to the back of her mind. The berries will be cooked in a pie, she hoped. Pinworms were a constant problem at Shingwauk, since children scratched their behinds and had no place to wash their hands.
The tag game resumed, and Lila led Clara to her cabin, which backed onto the woods at the edge of the clearing. Clara waited while Lila informed the family there was a visitor. A tall man limping on a right peg leg, looking anxious and hostile, came out on the stoop. He was darker-skinned than Lila and more square-jawed. His long grey braid rested on his shoulder, and Clara assumed the man was Lila’s grandfather.
“I’m the school nurse,” Clara said. “I was picking blueberries nearby and came to say hello.”
“I’m Albert Martin, Lila’s grandfather,” the man said, seeming less hostile. “I thought you might be from Children’s Aid.”
“Just a friendly visit. How are you managing on the wooden leg?”
Albert came down the stairs, holding the railing for support. “I was a non-commissioned lance corporal in the Great War, earning a citation for bravery. ‘Follow the braid!’ my commander would shout.” He flipped his braid. “I had to fight to keep this hair. I had to prove myself by being the best marksman.” Albert enjoyed seeing Clara’s surprise. “Killed hundreds of Germans.”
“I didn’t know Indians fought in the war.”
“One hundred Indians just from Northern Ontario,” Albert said. “We’re warriors, naturals on a battlefield. The government don’t know what to do with us now we’re home.”
“I nursed in England during the war.”
“But no Indians.”
“They were all soldiers. My husband didn’t make it. He died when the Germans used gas.”
“I’m sorry.” His manner softened.
“Is William here?”
“He works with his father at the logging camp when he comes home in the summer. The missus goes along to cook. Lila and me keep the fires burning here and look after the boy.”
“Go back with your friends,” Clara said, tweaking the girl’s ear gently.
Albert was a talker, and Clara stayed for a while before she delivered the pail of berries to Ellen.
August 1934
I picked blueberries today near the Batchewana Reserve, not far from where the Martin children live. Some Native ladies at the blueberry patch led me to the Martins where I met Albert, the children’s grandfather hobbling around on the original peg leg he was provided after the war. I discovered that without formal education, he was passed over for commissioned officer even though he was a decorated soldier. Worse still, only commissioned officers get upgraded legs. More government trickery to keep the Indian down. I think it was Duncan Campbell Scott who said take the Indian out of the child. I’m trying not to be part of that.
CHAPTER 16
Returning to the city to pack for Montreal was a letdown for Ivy after a fun-filled summer at Batchawana. Clara had overheard Jean Donnelly’s advice on nursing schools. “Royal Victoria Hospital in the heart of Montreal will have stricter rules than Toronto General,” she had said. “It’s the difference between the mostly Presbyterian society in Toronto and the French Catholics in Montreal.”
The three-week holiday provided an opportunity for Clara and Ivy to enjoy each other without the intrusions they’d experienced at the Galt. Living at the hospital had meant Clara was always on call. When they moved into the Hilltop duplex, Clara had ordered a cord of wood despite her usual frugality. I’ll miss our fireside chats, she thought, sitting on Ivy’s bed while her daughter packed.
The next morning, Ivy was off to the train station with Sergeant Stuart and Clara. The police officer, with the help of a platform worker, loaded Ivy’s trunk into the baggage car, leaving Ivy with a small overnight suitcase to keep on the train. Clara tried to hold back her tears.
“I’ll make you proud,” Ivy said.
Clara mouthed “Write often” from the platform, hoping Ivy could read her lips.
Ivy nodded, clutching the first-class ticket Clara had purchased, which included dinner in the dining car. She pressed her face against the window to be funny, but Clara could see the tears. Sergeant Stuart handed her his handkerchief, and Clara realized she was crying, too.
In the days that followed Ivy’s departure, Clara performed the lice checks with the stern-faced custodians, dreading the routine. They never asked if a youngster had had a nice holiday or if they had anything important to report like the birth of a sibling or any other major event. This was Clara’s second year, and she noted happily that if hair hadn’t grown much in the summer, it wasn’t lopped off. The newcomers had no such advantage.
Reverend Hives planned a picnic for the boys at Point aux Pins, fourteen miles from the school, to take advantage of the end-of-August weather. It was cooler in the evenings, but the days were hot. The kitchen prepared food the children had never tasted, such as meat sandwiches and fresh fruit. Reverend Hives, who wasn’t going on the picnic, hovered over the kitchen staff to make sure everything was done to his order, including the girls being served the same sandwiches at lunch.
Clara was asked to supervise the outing. She gave the idea some serious thought but declined because she couldn’t swim. Her holidays as a child in England were at the seaside where she admired the ocean but never dived in. She was, however, on hand the morning of the outing to herd the line of rambunctious boys into the back of the farm truck. The boys pushed one another and jabbered in their own languages until the farm manager, Noel Thomas, told them good-naturedly to “Shut up.”
“Boys might wander off the path into a thicket of poison ivy,” Clara said, handing a first-aid kit containing anti-itch cream to Kay Loucks, the teacher going on the trip. Mable Morrison, the other lady on the outing, was the custodian in charge of the junior boys’ dormitory. The two women were too busy gossiping to notice the jostling.
The engine sputtered several times before engaging. Noel leaned out the window. “I do know something about trucks,” he said as he settled into the front cabin. “I was a mechanic during the war and a vehicle b
roke down every hour.”
The older boys exchanged glances, suggesting they didn’t believe Noel could fix anything. As the truck rolled forward, Clara admonished herself quietly for not knowing how to swim. I would have loved an outing on Lake Superior, she thought.
Around three in the afternoon, she walked toward the river, anticipating the return of the farm truck momentarily. When the boys came back, she expected to be cleaning a number of scrapes and cuts typical of a day in the woods. Small wounds scratched by dirty hands became impetigo, which could spread throughout the school. Reaching the edge of the river, she shivered as the strong current snatched debris and carried it downstream. The temperature had dropped, and she regretted not putting on a sweater. Reverend Hives came running down the driveway, and Clara rushed to meet him. It was now two hours after the expected arrival time, and she suspected the headmaster had bad news. Perhaps the truck broke down and the children are walking back to the school, she thought.
The headmaster was out of breath and agitated when he intercepted Clara. “I’ve just received a telephone call from Dr. McCaig. He’s at Point aux Pins with the police. Dudley Shilling drowned. Miss Loucks and Miss Morrison have stayed back to explain what happened.”
“Oh, no!” Clara gasped. “This is terrible. How on earth did Dudley drown with three adults supervising?” She shook her head in disbelief and walked quickly with Reverend Hives to intercept the truck rattling up the driveway.
Before Noel could open the back hatch, the boys jumped over the sides of the truck and huddled in a group, bewildered and frightened. Dudley’s younger brother was the smallest boy on the trip. He looked overwhelmed. Dudley had been his protector against bullies in the school. The Shilling boys had become wards of the school when their parents died. Dudley was a prankster and very popular with the boys, though he was a headache for the staff. The only thing that kept him from running away was not having a place to go. Little Henry spoke oddly with a severe harelip. The boys imitated him until Dudley stepped in.
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