by Anne Wheeler
“It was as though she knew I was pregnant again. I didn’t even tell Matthew, in hopes that one way or another it would end itself. I know that is sinful, but when spring came I threw myself into the work, trying to overdo it. We put in five more acres. I was sick with fatigue and the pregnancy. I started to show, but wore loose clothing. My stomach was bulging and my back ached.
“By the end of May, Matthew realized that a baby was on the way and was convinced he could will it to be a boy. He decided to go to church and give thanks ... as though our lack of prayer had resulted in two girls. We arrived early so he could boast to everyone that we had put in twenty-five acres total this year and his house was taking shape.
“He was so full of himself that Maggie didn’t want to sit with us. She had become a working member of her adoptive family. They had given her a new printed dress and a spring hat adorned with flowers, which made her feel special. Her teacher made a point of telling us that Maggie was the smartest girl in her class. I was so proud of her and swallowed her rejection of us with a breath of relief. She looked healthy and happy — and as Matthew blathered on, she turned to me and we grinned at his foolishness.
“Seeing that I was pregnant, Peggy came over to us, delighted but concerned. Right in front of Matthew and the Reverend, she said, ‘When you need me, Doris, you send Matthew to get me and I will be there, and I will bring the midwife.’ The Reverend endorsed the idea, so that gave me great comfort.
“Ironically, that very night, after a bumpy ride home, I went into labour. Matthew rushed back to town to get Peggy. I knew something was wrong. All my other babies had gone full-term, but this one was small and had not moved inside of me for some time. With only my wee Brigitt to help me, I prepared the bed for the birth, like I had for the others.
“I don’t remember Matthew returning with Peggy and Ina, the midwife. I was weak and barely conscious. The baby was passive, so Ina worked quickly, pulling the little body from my womb. It was a boy, she told me. I never saw him alive. ‘Tiny thing, he was,’ Ina said, ‘very sad — not strong.’
“Ina, who only spoke a little English, saved my life! I don’t know how she learned to do what she did — she didn’t read — but she was the only midwife near town. She cleaned up everything and buried the little body out back amongst the birch trees.
“Matthew was completely disheartened, convinced he’d never have a son. He came in and cursed me. Screamed at me, ‘Without a son, there will be no farm, no future! What use are you? I curse the day you came here!’
“Peggy and Ina had no sympathy for Matthew and pulled him outside. I could hear them arguing with him, telling him that I was weak and needed to rest. He yelled, ‘I’m taking you back, get in the wagon!’ But they refused. Then he tried to chase them away, screaming, ‘Get the hell off my farm! This is my farm!’
“Eventually, he went off on his own. I was amazed that they were so brave, standing up for me against him. They were not going to leave me alone, with only five-year-old Brigitt to help me. They made a bed in the wagon and parked it close to the hut so they would hear me if I called out for help.
“We didn’t sleep much. We found what was left of Matthew’s bottle of rye and had a party. I had not talked openly with women since I’d left Ireland more than seven years ago now. We three were all so different, but at the same time connected by our time in the wild, trying to establish homes in the New World. It didn’t matter where we women came from; we needed each other. We understood each other’s circumstances.
“Ina had come to Canada with her sister when she was sixteen — it was all arranged in advance you see. They married brothers who didn’t get along. Eventually she and her husband moved away from the family.
“Peggy told me that she and her husband had come from Liverpool on the same boat as Matthew and that he had been a good friend to them in the beginning. He was strong and skilled, full of plans for the future. He’d come into town, illkempt, but always with a gift of wild meat or berries. She would cook it up for the three of them while Matthew and the Reverend talked together in the parlour. That’s where the idea of looking for a wife first started. He never invited them out to his place, but he described it to them in great detail. He told them about the spring-fed lake with clean water, which amused me. It was a slough that stank in the summer and made us all sick. We’d be covered in hives whenever we went in to bathe. I boiled the water, but it still smelt like urine, and was thick with slime that I filtered out with cheesecloth. Matthew kept promising me he’d dig us a well, but in the meantime I saved rainwater whenever I could.
“Over the years, Peggy saw him change. She assumed it was from being alone too much. They feared he would give up his efforts to farm. He needed a wife. Yes, she confessed, she had written the letters, and at one point understood that a young woman had agreed to come. That was me. She remembered that he came into town and bought a few new clothes before heading to Calgary. Months later, he told them that I didn’t show up at the station as promised, and he was out a lot of money. They felt badly for him, knowing how hard he had worked. He said he’d given up with finding a wife.
“It was not until I ran away and the Reverend went to fetch him that they witnessed his bad temper. They were appalled by his behaviour. But the Reverend believed that it was his calling to keep marriages together. Promises made with God as a witness were to be kept, and he’d have nothing to do with ending our union. Peggy apologized for not being able to help me more, but I didn’t blame her, of course.
“In the morning, Ina and Peggy made a big breakfast, and Matthew came in to eat. Before they left, Ina took him aside.
“I heard her say, ‘No more babies. No more. Wife die.’
“He was infuriated that this Ukrainian woman would talk to him directly and told her to mind her own business. She argued that it was her business, that every woman was her business, and another shouting match erupted.
“Peggy was able to calm things down before leaving. She hugged me warmly and whispered, ‘This can’t go on. Take care of yourself and never doubt that things will get better.’
“Never had I felt so close and loved as I did by those two. At last I did not feel alone.
“But weeks went by and I didn’t hear from Peggy. I got stronger and started to harvest the garden. Matthew worked on the house, rarely speaking to me.
“Brigitt was old enough to know that I was very unhappy and complained that she was, too. She didn’t have any friends and she missed her sister. Sometimes she got moody and refused to help her father. He’d give her a whipping with his belt and she’d run away — hiding for days in the bush. When she did come home, Matthew was tough on her again and refused to feed her. He seemed bent on killing her, and I could see no end to this misery. As summer passed, I began to worry that she wouldn’t survive the winter like this, staying out overnight. And she wouldn’t survive his beatings.
“In late August she ran away and didn’t come back. Matthew wouldn’t let me go out looking for her and locked me up when he went to town. Unknown to me, she’d been watching the farm from a distance. When she saw her father leave in the wagon, she ran home and unbolted the door. The poor wee girl was in bad shape, thin and shaky; the soles of her feet were cracked and sore. She’d been eating saskatoons and vegetables from the garden when she managed to sneak back at night. I was attending to her, getting her cleaned up, feeding her, when, oh my Lord, I heard the wheels of a wagon approach. I hid her under the bed and went out to meet him.
“But it was Peggy. Her horse was lathered up and out of breath when she pulled into the yard. ‘Come on, Doris, it’s now or never!’
“‘What are we doing?’ I asked, amazed that she had appeared so unexpectedly.
“‘We’re getting you out of this hellhole! Where’s Brigitt?’
“I grabbed what little I had and threw it into the wagon box. Within minutes, the three of us were heading west, Brigitt and I holding on for our lives, bouncing over the rough ground,
too shocked to say much.
“Hours later, we arrived at a town called Rosedale. I could hear the train in the distance as we pulled up to the small station. Peggy explained that she had told several women of my situation and they had all contributed to the plan. When Matthew appeared at the General Store that morning, the wife of the store owner sent word to Peggy, and the women made their move. One woman got the wagon ready; another, the suitcases packed. Together they had gathered up what money they could. It wasn’t much, but it would see me through a couple of months. My daughter, Maggie, would be on this same train, having caught it a half-hour earlier in their town, and it would take us all to Calgary.
“Peggy gave me a letter, with an address on the front, and told me that her sister was expecting us. She would help me find work sewing or cleaning or helping in some shop. As the train pulled in, I remember I hung onto Peggy — trying to gather my strength. She was so brave to have done this for me. She had taken such a risk.
“I was excited, yet afraid of the future. Having been subjugated for so long, I didn’t know if I could manage the responsibility. If it wasn’t for my girls, I would have done myself in long ago. But I hadn’t and here we were.
“It was 1914. The train was full of farm boys on their way to Calgary where they could sign up to be soldiers. Like them, we were heading into the unknown, optimistic, hoping that the life ahead would be better than the one we were leaving behind.
“Matthew never knew what happened. Nor did any of the husbands in town — including the Reverend. It was a well-kept secret, and I’m sharing it with you.”
She smiles, content with the ending. We sit in silence, and drink our tea.
Her story has stunned me. “Ì could never imagine such a life,” I said. “My mother was born in 1910 on a homestead, not unlike the one you knew, out in the middle of nowhere. Her dad built a house that is still standing. The pictures of their lives are of the happy times, of course.”
“I’m sure there are things they never told you,” Doris responded. “It could not have been easy. Everyone suffered. The clothing alone was inadequate for the winters — leather boots, hand-knitted sweaters, and woollen coats. It was harsh, so harsh. How many children did your grandmother have?”
“Six. My mom was the eldest.”
“Did they all survive?”
“Yes. My mom was fourteen when the last baby was born.”
“Ah. Six in fourteen years.” She nods knowingly to herself. “Could be she lost a few.”
“Maybe.”
Two women come into the room and start setting the tables. I realize our time is running short.
“But you, Doris, how did you make a living when you got to Calgary?”
“At first, I worked in a restaurant. In the kitchen. Hiding. Using another name. There were no laws to protect me. No possibility of divorce. No social assistance. I guess some things haven’t changed all that much, from what I heard you say on the radio. I lived in constant fear of Matthew turning up. If he wanted me back, the police would have taken his side, without a doubt.”
“But he didn’t —”
“No, and I did pretty well. I made a life for my two girls and myself. With the war and so many men being away, more jobs were open to women. I learned how to type and eventually got work in an office.”
“And Matthew? What became of him?”
She nods, as she decides how to sum it up. “Well. He didn’t come looking for us, as far as I know. Maybe he thought we’d come back one day. Peggy told me that he secured the title of his land and worked on his house ... rarely coming into town. People were afraid of him, except for the Reverend who tried to reach out, but Matthew really became a hermit. When people did see him, he was bony and wild. He didn’t take care of himself. He wasn’t doing anyone any harm, so people let him be.
“Then one spring, Peggy wrote me — we always kept in touch through her sister — that Matthew had not shown up as usual in April to buy seeds and supplies. The Reverend and a couple of men rode out to the farm and found him dead. His animals were on their last legs, penned in without feed. He was sitting in front of the huge stone fireplace he had built for his house — that’s all he had managed to construct. It seemed clear to the men that he had lit the fire, a big fire, and had finished his bottle of rye before falling asleep and freezing to death.
“I felt guilty in a way. The man needed care, he needed help, but I was not willing to sacrifice the life of my girls — or my own, for that matter — so that he could survive.”
“No one would ever blame you,” is all I can think to say.
“Maybe his last dreams were good ones — dreams of living in his grand home, enjoying the fire. He didn’t leave a will, so legally the farm belonged to the eldest son. There was no son, so it came to me. Maggie was already on her own, married, but Brigitt was still single and wanted to be a nurse. I came back, much to everyone’s surprise, and sold the farm, then moved into Brooks — to be close to my one true friend. Peggy.
“When Peggy’s husband died, a new pastor came in, of course. There was no place for her to go, so I invited her to come live with me. We had twelve wonderful years together. We were just like sisters, kind to each other, grateful to live on our own terms. Our house was the house that women came to if they needed a place to stay. And there were many. Most of them had children, so Peggy got her fill of children.”
It seems time to ask the question I’ve come to ask: “Do you remember when women won the vote? Were you a part of that in any way?”
“Well, yes and no. That was 1916. I hadn’t been in Calgary so very long. My girls were still young. But I did attend a couple of suffrage meetings ... and made a small donation.”
“Did you meet any of them? Were they good speakers? Smart?”
“Well, I loved Mrs. McClung of course — she was Irish, you know, she had the gift of wit. I had read her books, over and over. But to be honest, I felt uncomfortable with some of the ladies who were, you know, city folk and a bit full of themselves.
“I was a poor woman, with a thick accent and no stature except that I appeared to be educated, in that I could read and write. The class system was very strong in those days, and I didn’t fit in with those who had married well and were respected members of their community. They did not believe that all women should have a vote ... just the more acceptable ones.”
“Really!” I am mildly shocked and disappointed.
“Yes, of course. It was quite different then. I know there were some who wanted the vote because they thought that women would make the country a better place to live. That Canada could be an example to the rest of the world. They had strong views about what ‘better’ meant. The Temperance Union was very motivated to prohibit alcohol, for instance — which did happen. Some righteous women thought that people who were mentally, you know, should be separated, put away ... even neutered. Oh yes!
“I identified with the farm women, who felt that they had not been supported by the government; that we needed support, we needed schools, community halls; that we’d been exploited — and we had.”
“So you did think that winning the vote was a milestone, an important piece of history!”
“Yes, but it could have been more than it was. We could have been a powerful force, but so many women just voted as they were told to vote, and when we did elect a woman — Louise McKinney — she only held office for one term. Women winning the vote did not change the world like we’d hoped. They had not been educated to make a choice of their own. Even today, lots of women don’t make their own decisions.” Unfortunately, she is right.
“So, Doris,” I feel she is getting tired now, and I should sum up our talk. “You promised me that you would tell me why prairie women were the first to get the provincial vote in Canada.”
“And I’ve done just that. I’ve told you!”
“You have? Then why?”
“Because it was evident that women were essential to the settlement of this
land. Farm women did at least half of the work. They learned how to make everything from soaps to laxatives, raised a wide variety of animals and bred them. They put in huge gardens, pickled and canned, dried and smoked enough food to feed a family during the long, cold winter — which could be eight months long!
“These women were superwomen who made living here tolerable. There was no social structure out in the wilds. No sports facilities. No shelters for the disadvantaged. No welfare system. They organized the parties, the weddings, the funerals, the social events. They took care of the sick and the weary — and yet they remained nameless, as though they didn’t exist. They rarely heard their first names. They were just ‘Missus so and so’ — somebody’s wife.
“These women fought for schools, for hospitals. They fought for the vote so that they would have a say. We had just come out of a war, and women had proved themselves to be more than capable in the absence of the men. They demanded that right, the vote — and the powers that be could not deny their worth.”
“Well said!” I almost applaud.
“Listen to me, speech-making. Peggy used to give the talks. She could tell you a thing or two. But now, she’s gone. And I’m still here, in this oh-so-quiet place. So it’s up to me. And I’m just about done. But I need you to promise me something.”
She closes her diary. She has barely glanced at it.
“Of course!”
She pushes the diary toward me. “I’m giving you this ... it will help you, I hope. I tried to give it to the local museum — they did not want it. I wrote to the provincial and national archives. They didn’t want it either. My family isn’t interested. So I’m giving it to you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure ... but I need you to promise —”
“Anything!”
“— that one day, somehow, you will tell my story, which is the untold story of so many who have gone without notice. Ours is a different kind of history, but it is just as real. My story is your story now, and if you don’t do something with it, it will be lost. Do you understand that? Lost. And there are so many other stories to be uncovered — the best ones are often buried. Go to the graveyards — you will see. Young women buried with newborn babies. Whole families wiped out by a storm, or a prairie fire, or the flu of 1918. You will see men with two, three, four wives ... rarely women with two or three husbands. Promise me you’ll not let us be forgotten.”